


The Road goes ever on and on

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo and Thorin travel east, Everybody Lives, M/M, and discover what else there is in middle earth, and this is actually fairly fluffy, they see pretty landscapes, travel AU, visit foreign cities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:42:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the battle, Thorin and Bilbo live in Erebor, though Thorin has left the crown to Fili. In that prosperous time, they are invited to the wedding of Dorwinion's crown prince; and once on the road, Bilbo and Thorin find that they wouldn't mind seeing a little more of the world.</p><p>What was supposed to be a diplomatic mission to Rhûn brings them to distant lands, lets them walk over a sea of stars, cross the Eastern Desert, and gaze at the shores at the end of the world. Far from home they make new friends, and find that the world is wider than they thought - there are hobbits living in the east, and dwarves from Erebor that found a home there after the dragon came. </p><p>And eventually that same road also leads them home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tosq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosq/gifts).



> This. Is. Fluff. 
> 
> A little whistful at times, and there will be some action in later chapters (slow updates ahead), but it's mostly a fluffy roadtrip fic.

When Thorin Oakenshield laid down the crown and handed the ruling of Erebor to his nephew, he had expected to spend the rest of his days living quietly at the side of his consort. They would sleep long and eat well, perhaps travel to the Shire every now and then, or visit his sister in the Blue Mountains. And Bilbo, too, had been looking forward to some calm after winning the mountain and settling it had taken so much effort.

Erebor flourishes, once again the greatest dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth, if not the greatest of them all. Even after returning the treasures Smaug stole to Dale, the great treasury stacks mountains of gold and gems, and Thorin knows that keeping the prices in Erebor and Dale from hyperinflating is giving Gloin grey hairs.

But these decisions no longer rest on Thorin’s shoulders. Fili wears the crown with pride and has a carefully selected staff of dwarves to support him. His administration, Thorin thinks, already handles the mountain better than he ever could. Unlike Thorin, Fili is not weighted down by old connections, and has demonstrated a will to tear down hindering traditions. He’s the dwarves’ road to the future, and Thorin will not obstruct him.

That doesn’t stop some of the returning nobles from seeking out Thorin first, still, but now he can gladly turn away their requests and spend his time with Bilbo instead, trying to express just how grateful he is Bilbo decided to stay.

Though he knows Bilbo sometimes looks west with longing.

***

What Thorin does not know is that Bilbo not only looks west. He misses his home, though with the raven now carrying messages between the Shire and Erebor frequently, it sometimes feels far closer than it is. He still doesn’t quite understand why Lobelia insists on writing, when her letters amount to little more than lists of thinly veiled insults.

No, sometimes Bilbo also looks north and south, and once in a while he travels to the other side of Erebor and gazes east. Thinks about the distant lands, of those places that might just be myths and rumors the way Erebor seemed to him not too long ago.

And he wonders whether if he started walking, he could just get there.

***

In summer, Erebor receives a rare letter from Dorwinion. With the trade routes restored, Dale has seen men from the east arrive a little more often. Some sought out the dwarven jewelers, commissioning delicate works to be carried home.

“… we wish to invite you to the wedding of crown prince Doteas and his spouse Ilima,” Fili flings aside the letter and leans back in his chair.

“There’s no way you can travel there, brother,” Kili says, and Thorin has to nod, “It would take months.”

Fili sighs. “Yes, but not going could be taken as an affront.”

“We don’t need those ties,” Thorin counsels, because Erebor is strong already and he’d rather not have that ideal relations if it stops his nephew from running himself ragged. Or making potentially dangerous trips.

“And we’d benefit from it,” Fili replies, “The roads to the south and west are established, but we still have little trade with the east. Rhunannon is a gateway to these regions, and Erebor could benefit from these contacts.”

The east is known for its surprising inventions. Few of them make it west, but the tales of them live on. Powder that can break stone, water that can burn and creams that may heal all wounds.

“Establishing and maintaining a road would not be problem,” Fili continues, “In his last letter Dain mentioned that more of his dwarves look to come here to settle, and the men of Dale have just finished repairing the road to Mirkwood. Building a road to the east with waystations would also give us some degree of control of these lands – marauding orc packs there could be decimated severely.”

Thorin nods thoughtfully. Fili is right, they stand to lose little.

“But who will go?” Kili asks, again, “I cannot, you know I am traveling to Lothlorien in autumn.” And that in itself was a rare invitation for any dwarf to receive, much less for a small delegation. Already Erebor’s jewelers are working day and night to provide a suitable gift for the Lady of the Wood.

“We could,” Bilbo pipes up from where he had quietly contemplated the matter, “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs a bit, and I think we should be able to manage without causing much offense.”

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims, scandalized, his eyebrows shooting up, while Fili’s jaw drops. Thorin opens his mouth to protest – and finds himself studying his beloved closely instead.

He’s pale, as has become common. Hobbits are creatures of sunlight, and even Erebor’s golden halls are not enough. And Thorin finds himself recalling the sun-kissed tan Bilbo had sported on the road, the way the wind has tousled his hair –

And maybe, he thinks, he wouldn’t mind traveling again.

“It’s much too dangerous!” Fili objects, “You and uncle, if anything happened to you…”

Bilbo shrugs, folding the letter. “I think we can watch our own backs, Fili. And if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go and see a bit more of the world.”

He looks at Thorin and their eyes meet. And in them Thorin can see the spark, the curiosity – and his own heart skips a beat. The decision, he realizes, is already made.

And he can’t wait for the day of their departure.

***

Of course, preparations take ages. Dwalin protests, Balin protests – every dwarf in the entire mountain seems to protest. Too dangerous, too far. They’re the former King and Consort, they should not leave. But the longer these discussions drag on, the more Thorin starts to feel claustrophobic. He loves Erebor – the mountain is his home – however, he spent much time of his life traveling the wild and now he finds he misses the open skies.

The simplicity of that time.

Across another meeting table, he and Bilbo share a smile. The thought of traveling again fills him with a youthful joy, and the lines on his face seem to vanish every time he looks into the mirror. Instead of spending his days cooped up in the mountain, they now ride to Dale. Hear the news, watch the weather, browse the markets, and prepare.

***

And on a morning in late summer, when the sun yet hovers below the horizon, they set out. Quietly, with a contingent of merely eight guards, all dressed in plain travel cloaks, they ride out. Past Erebor, across familiar roads, until the landscape begins to change.

Behind them the mountain grows smaller.

“Another corner and she will be out of sight,” Bilbo says as they break for lunch. A fat hare roasts over the fire, and Thorin thinks it’s a good sign. Not only have the animals returned to the region, but they are well-fed and healthy.

“She will,” he agrees and turns to his home. Last saw Erebor from this side was almost a century ago – as a lad he had traveled east, though never as far as Dorwinion. Coming home then was always wonderful, and today, too, he thinks that the moment he sees Erebor on the horizon of their return journey will fill him with joy.

Bilbo seems to pick up on his maudlin thoughts. “I could also go alone,” he offers, repeating what he often said in the weeks before their departure, “You don’t have to leave. I know Erebor is your home, and I feel a bit bad about dragging you away again so soon.”

Thorin slings an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and turns his face to the eastern plains before them instead. “You needn’t,” he says shortly, “I think I was quite ready for a holiday.”

***

The road leading east from Erebor is still being repaired, but already frequently used. Every few hours or so Bilbo’s and Thorin’s group comes across other travelers – usually traders having heard of Erebor’s revival and looking to sell their wares to the mountain. A few of the dwarves even recognize Thorin and bow low to pay their respects, while others chat blithely about the tales they have heard of the battle and the heroic company of fourteen.

Around them the lands have begun to heal. At this time of the year most of the plains are brown and dusty, though in spring and early summer they are bright green, Thorin explains. With autumn around the corner, however, the remaining vegetation is centered around little rivers and springs, and the nights already grow quite cool.

Bilbo uses these occasions to snuggle up to Thorin.

“This is rather enjoyable, you know,” he tells Thorin while gazing at the stars above. The day has been clear and no cloud obscures the night sky either. Bilbo doesn’t know if he has ever seen the stars so clear and bright, and a part of him wishes this moment could last forever.

Thorin grasps his hand. “Isn’t it?” he replies, “Though I thought you preferred sleeping in real beds.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Well, at least this time we have good bedrolls. That makes all the difference.”

“Not having an entire wagon of food?”

“Oh, well. That and the lack of orcs chasing us, I suppose.”

“You are easily satisfied, Master Baggins,” Thorin says.

Bilbo tears his eyes from the stars to look at Thorin. “Actually, there is one more thing I could think of.”

***

They make good time and reach the Iron Hills in less than a fortnight. Dain holds a royal feast in their honor, cheerfully ignoring that Thorin no longer wears the crown. Bilbo finds himself surprised at the welcome he receives – he remembers the dwarves that looked down on him all too well – but as the tale of Thorin Oakenshield has spread and grown grander, so has Bilbo’s role.

And so Bilbo finds many dwarves ogling him, approaching him with wonder in their eyes, right down to a small dwarfling looking at him and proclaiming: “He’s real! I told you hobbits exist!” much to the embarrassment of his parents.

Dain laughs so loud the halls seem to shake, while Bilbo crouches down and tells tales of the Shire. Thorin observes the glow lighting the dwarfling’s eyes, and turns to the parents to apologize – only to find them just as enchanted in Bilbo’s tale. Of course, then the tale has to be repeated to the entirety of the Iron Hill’s citizens, which leads to the tale of the quest being told, and Thorin learning that new verses have been added.

“I did rather enjoy the part about Bofur,” Bilbo giggles later, “He’d like it, too, I think.”

Thorin groans something unintelligible into his pillow.

“Also I that verse where you swept me off your feet the moment you saw me was rather endearing,” Bilbo continues, trailing a hand along Thorin’s arm, “But I wonder if I should tell the bard that it weren’t your good looks that caused me to faint.”

Thorin catches Bilbo’s hand in his own and tugs him closer until Bilbo lies half-way on his chest. “I think,” he rumbles and Bilbo can feel the echo vibrating through his own body, “Your fainting episode is the only part of that song that is even remotely true.”

Bilbo chuckles and rests his chin on Thorin’s chest, reaching up to play with his hair. A spark runs down Thorin’s spine and his own hands come up in response to wrap around his hobbit. And slide lower.

“I don’t mind,” Bilbo says, “Especially the part where you carry me to the bedroom. Pity the bards always leave out just what happened there.”

“Well,” Thorin whispers, “I could show you.”

***

They leave the Iron Hills after a week in good cheer. Dain waves them off while contemplating loudly about joining them – he has a heir to leave his crown to, after all. Thorin Stonehelm pales dramatically at the mere thought, and with a last good laugh, Bilbo and Thorin set off.

Their usual travel furs have been replaced by plainer cloaks, and the gifts for the Dorwinian royals hidden among their supplies. After a day, they come to the Redwater, already swollen to a respectable size, and Bilbo watches in unease as their packs are transferred onto three boats.

“Worry not,” Thorin tells him quietly, “These are calm waters.”

“Especially this time of the year,” their designated boat leader from the Iron Hills adds, “In spring the river sometimes floods with all the snowmelt coming down from the mountains, but during late summer the river is always quiet.”

Bilbo swallows, nods, and pushes down his fears. To him, any body of water larger than a bathtub deserves a healthy dose of respect.

The first days on the boat are uncomfortable. But then he grows used to the gentle sway, the groan of the wood and the calming sounds of the waves, and turns his eyes to the shores. These lands are gentle, flat. The prairies stretch as far as the eye can see, and Bilbo marvels at how wonderful farmlands these would make.

“Hasn’t anybody thought to settle it?” he asks Thorin.

His dwarf keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon – empty except for a few, lone trees. “It has been attempted, but no settlement lasted long. There were never enough men to successfully control the area, and from time to time nomad tribes came through. These encounters never ended well for the colonies.”

Bilbo hums. With wildflowers blooming all around, it is difficult to imagine evil here – but for a hobbit he has come far, and knows better than to judge things by their appearance.

Soon the first signs of autumn are upon them: the sun sets earlier, descending in riveting sunsets of gold and copper to their right. In the mornings the air is cold, one morning Bilbo even observes his breath fogging – and a thin layer of fog covers the landscape.

Sailing through grey nothingness, where even the shore is reduced to the shadow of trees, should be disquieting. Yet Bilbo allows the silence to sink into his bones, allows himself calm – and he can feel Thorin doing the same. Some may wonder what the two of them are doing – staring into the fog in silence. But to Bilbo it returns to him a quietude he did not even know he was missing.

All the toils and troubles, even the celebrations and merry times – they had never realized just how busy they had grown. How quickly time had passed.

Sitting here, now, is perhaps their first chance in a long time to just be themselves. Erebor is far, they have not reached their destination yet. No papers wait to be read, no orders to be given.

It’s quite enjoyable.

***

They only encounter bandits once: a group of four orcs lying in wait at the river’s shores: their guards dispatch them with arrows before Bilbo has even drawn his sword. Thorin almost appears a little disappointed that he never had a chance to get involved, and so do many other of their companions.

After that, they encounter no further trouble, and Bilbo finds he rather enjoys traveling like this. Around them the Redwater widens, and in the distant he thinks he spies buildings. Small farm houses, as the land begins to adopt a visibly more agricultural bent.

“We will be there soon,” the captain of their boat informs them with a smile, “Once we’re on the Sea of Rhun we keep to the Western Shore, until we reach Rhunannon.”

And though Bilbo dreads the sea – for no sane hobbit would ever do more than wet their feet in an actual sea – once they get there, he is distracted. The world, it seems, has changed overnight. There are watchtowers lining the shore and fishing boats passing them, their sails bearing strange symbols. Few Bilbo has spied in Dale, but here the shine under a cloudless sky. Mountains loom in the distance, but before their boats turn west and Rhunannon comes into view.

The city’s round towers rise high, blue-tiled roofs and facades glitter in the sun. Bilbo watches the shining walls come closer, and stares at the fishers they pass with the same uninhibited curiosity as they regard him with.

“This is amazing,” he says to Thorin shortly before they reach land.

Thorin smiles wistfully. “I have heard many tales of Dorwinion. I had not expected to see the blue city myself.”

Bilbo feels his own smile widen – perhaps this journey will give some joy to Thorin too. After so many years that Thorin spent on the road due to lacking a home, Bilbo long feared this trip would rouse bad memories.

Instead he finds Thorin’s cheeks have gained color and laugh lines around his eyes and Bilbo falls in love all over again.

***

Rhunannon is different from anything Bilbo has seen.

An escort meets them at the harbor, bearing blue and green banners and ceremonial arms. Bilbo and Thorin, too, have donned their better clothes; though with the autumn sun hot on their backs, Bilbo feels slightly too warm.

“Welcome to the city of Rhunannon,” the leader of the escort – a richly-dressed man greets them. Years before Bilbo might have with some luck thought him an Easterling; his time in Erebor has taught him that there are huge differences between the various realms and tribes living in the east. Unthinkable, back in the Shire.

To people here, however, dwarves and hobbits are perhaps the same. Already a small crowd is building in the harbor, eyeing the new arrivals curiously. Erebor’s flag fluttering proudly above their ship’s central mast likely inspires curiosity, too.

“Rooms have been prepared for you in the royal palace,” the leader tells them, “If amenable, I will guide you there.”

“Erebor is much obliged for your invitation,” Thorin returns with an ease that is perhaps reserved for rulers who have stepped away from the crown, “And we will gladly accept your offer.”

From the port they are lead through winding streets, past shops and houses and Bilbo’s eyes jump from one sight to another – mosaic tiles, exquisite fabrics, and the smell of unfamiliar spices drifting past him. He tells himself he will have time to study these in detail later – now, with their doubled escort, he can barely see past the men next to him.

Bilbo gazes around – thinks about Dale, Bree and Laketown, and realizes how little of the world he has seen in the end. Blue tiles decorate the walls of many houses, glinting in the sunlight. The blue rooftops seem to almost match the sky, and Bilbo observes that many citizens wear blue, too. Bright, flowing colors in cuts that are quite different from what he knows.

But to think that none of his kin will ever see this – the splendid marble tiles that line the houses, those small towers. Even the treasures of Erebor and the halls of Rivendell few hobbits have and will ever see.

In this, Bilbo thinks, he is rather glad not to be a typical hobbit.

***

The palace actually consists of numerous smaller, elegant buildings spread over a large, green compound. Bilbo falls in love with it immediately; his eyes drawn to the many colorful and unfamiliar flowers. Detailed mosaics and stonework decorate the hallways and buildings, and the central hall is a riot of blue and gold.

It’s breath-taking and utterly different from everything Bilbo has seen so far.

So when he and Thorin have completed all the required, diplomatic meetings, he does feel tired. But not tired enough to fall asleep.

Thorin, him and their delegation of guards have been given their own building, a two-storied complex deep within the palace gardens. Bilbo lets his hands ghost over the tiles and carvings, climbs the stairs and finds to his surprise a balcony attached to their upstairs receiving room.

“This is quite nice,” Thorin agrees, speaking over Bilbo’s shoulder. Most of their retinue are downstairs, unpacking. It’s one of the luxuries Bilbo doesn’t mind – having somebody else care for his luggage. Especially since the last time he traveled, he ended up not having luggage at all.

“I rather agree,” Bilbo says, “Shall we go and take a look at the city?”

***

In the following weeks, Bilbo and Thorin grow familiar with Rhunannon’s bazaars, its curious traders and crafty salesmen. Bilbo soon learns to barter using his hands and – on one occasion – feet; hobbit feet are quite a curiosity and according to everybody Bilbo ends that day by making quite the deal. Though Bilbo himself isn’t quite certain what he is going to do with two rolls of beautiful, blue-golden fabric.

 

They are required to do little in terms of diplomatic work, and for that Thorin is grateful. At one point, a runner from the King extends his direst apologies of not having time to greet his esteemed guests yet – Bilbo and Thorin find themselves in agreement that he may take a little longer.

In the meantime, they do get to meet the crown prince. He’s not an ideal prospective ruler, Thorin judges. Too easily distracted, too much given to search after private pleasures. Dorwinion has, however, a clever system of political advisory in place that is likely to curb any excesses.

Part of it is due to the nomad tribes populating the south and the east of the kingdom. They are, as Bilbo and Thorin learn, unlikely to follow an incompetent ruler, as their lifestyles demand discipline. Without their support, Dorwinion’s outer borders would easily crumble, and the merchants that have grown rich in the cities know that.

And yet the wedding, to Bilbo, is nearly too-grand. Perhaps the following celebration lacks the almost simplistic joy that accompanies the dwarven feasts; once the ale starts flowing, the songs become raunchier and at the end of the night everybody is dancing on the tables or snoring beneath them. Here, a troupe of artists performs trick to entertain the audience through a formal, if rich dinner, and only late during the night the atmosphere grows slightly more relaxed.

Thorin finds himself easily drawn into conversation with the ambassador sent from Gondor, while Bilbo – with the courage gained from talking to a dragon and nice Dorwinion wine – approaches a group of what he thinks are nomad leaders.

They barely understand Westron and do not know what to make of his greeting. But when Bilbo raises his glas and says “to the couple”, they cheer in response and the ice is broken.

“This,” one of them says and points to his glas, “is weak. You must drink this!” From the pocket of his long leather coat he draws a flask of clear liquid.

Bilbo – who has by now heard rumors of the nomad’s drink on the local markets – purses his lips. “What is it?”

“Our drink,” one of the three says, and – as he obviously already had his fill of wine already too – holds it out to Bilbo, “Try.”

Taking a whiff of the liquid already brings tears to Bilbo’s eyes. A sip clears his nostrils and head.

“I feel … deeply cleansed,” he pronounces as he fights to swallow down the burning of his throat. The three laugh, so it probably wasn’t too offensive.

“What are you?” another of the men asks, “Your companion is a dwarf, and you wear the colors of Erebor. But you are no dwarf.”

Bilbo nods his head. “Yes, I’m a hobbit.”

“What is that? Does your kind live in Erebor now?”

“No, no. We live far, far to the west, almost at the ocean. Men sometimes call us halflings, and the elves –“

Bilbo is interrupted by one of the men saying something to his compatriots in their own language. Rude, he thinks, but uses the break to take a sip of his wine instead. It’s like clear spring water to his poor throat.

“Forgive us,” says one of the three to Bilbo, “But we just spoke – we may have heard of your kind. There is a legend in the east, of half-men. They are good archers, though no one knows where they live.”

Bilbo blinks. “I never heard about that,” he responds immediately, though his mind starts to whirl. Hobbits in the east – that should be impossible.

“Perhaps it is just a legend.”

***

A week after the wedding feast, Thorin finds Bilbo on the balcony, gazing out over the gardens. The clouds hang deep, their grey reflected on the ponds, and today even the bustling city sounds silent. Lucky, Thorin thinks, that the wedding took place on a sunnier day – this feels oddly solemn.

“Bilbo,” he greets before stepping next to his beloved. His breath fogs in the air, and he notices Bilbo wrapped in a thick coat.

The hobbit turns to him with a thoughtful smile. “It’s almost winter,” he says, “I guess it’s time for us to return home.”

Thorin nods. With the cold creeping through his clothes, he looks forward to Erebor’s consistent warmth. “Yes, soon.”

“We might actually get snow on the roads this time,” Bilbo adds lightly.

Thorin frowns. “They’re maintaining the roads. And we’ll be sailing up the Redwater for the rest of the journey.” As long as the wrap up warm enough, they will be fine on the boat. From there it won’t be far to the Iron Hills, and if need has it, Dain will certainly see them to Erebor with all pomp and circumstances.

“I was actually thinking I might enjoy going further east,” Bilbo says quietly.

Thorin hums, at first not quite catching it.

Bilbo, of course, notices. “We could join one of the caravans. I spoke to somebody earlier – they’ll sail over to the southern Shore and from there follow an ancient trade route east, all the way to Cuiviénen and the Orocarni Mountains.”

“The – what?” Thorin turns to look at his beloved. Bilbo grins at him – but there is a spark in his eyes, a curious gleam that Thorin has not seen in a long, long while. His cheeks ruddy from the cold, his hair ruffled from the wind –

“Have the dwarves ever gone this far east?” Bilbo asks, turning to gaze out at the sea again, “I know the elves say Cuivienen is where they first woke, though I do not know if any elves remain there. According to Gandalf two of his kind should be around there, too, but I don’t know anything about the dwarves, though.”

Thorin finds himself recalling an education from another lifetime. Before Bilbo, before the dragon – the memories have started feeling unreal. “There are,” he tells Bilbo, “Four of the seven dwarven clans have halls in the Orocarni.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “Did you trade with them?”

Thorin chuckles. “The road is long and perilious, but I remember that in my grandfather’s day delegations came from even there.” Before Thror grew to blinded – back in the days when Erebor was a kingdom of light and happiness.

“What did they tell?” ,Bilbo asks enthusiastically, “What did they wear? Are there dark elves in the forest before the Orcarni? Is it true that east of the Orcarni lies a marvelous country of the size we cannot imagine? What about the animals there?”

Thorin feels Bilbo’s enthusiasm catch on. To his own surprise, he finds he remembers astonishingly little. “I’m afraid, they wore mostly traveling clothes at their arrival and then changed to Erebor’s robes for court receptions. Mostly they talked diplomatic matters – or complained about the roads.”

Bilbo chuckles. “That must have been an adventure.”

Thorin catches the whimsical note. And feels his own gaze turn east – and his mind turn to areas he had not truly ever considered. Erebor had maps, gifts brought by their foreign visitors. But in his youth Thorin has paid little attention to the realms beyond their immediate neighborhood. Now he looks out and wonders.

Erebor is stable. There is no danger threatening her, no urgent business calling them home.

And he sees the longing in Bilbo’s eyes. That wanderlust his quest has awoken. A temptation his own heart echoes.

_tbc_


	2. Dust, sand dunes and cities of tents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They may be causing a scandal, they may not be making a rational or good decision. But they're doing it - joining a caravan to the east and seeing some more of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mostly fluffy chapter. 7k words, so I left the action for chapter three. Which means no evil cliffhanger either. 
> 
> Also: Middle Earth geography concerning the lands to the east is quite difficult to determine, especially during the third age. I'm taking some liberties with alliances - aka, assuming that so far very few of the easterling tribes have allied themselves with Sauron. Also, the map I'm taking place names from is [this map](http://alankhunt.com/www/JPG/LOTR/r3t_M142.jpg). I'm not entirely certain what their sources are, but it works nicely for the purpose of this fic. Feel free to point me to other resources, though XD.

He can’t believe he’s doing this.

Next to him, Bilbo hums, bent over his own letters while Thorin struggles to get the words out. Fili won’t be happy – Thorin can imagine his reaction, see him pale as he reads through the letter, and then stalk off to complain to Kili, Dis, Balin and everybody else in the vicinity.

And he’d be right.

It’s not the most responsible thing for the retired King under the Mountain and his consort to go frolicking into the wilderness, and yet the thought fills Thorin with a childish glee.

“We’re going to cause a scandal,” Bilbo says as they watch the ravens fly away with their letters. He fiddles with the hem of his coat; the gesture betraying the nerves Bilbo does not allow himself to show.

Thorin wraps an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “I guess the bards will have to add more verses,” he says, and his stomach tingles with energy; a kind of joyful anticipation. Maybe he is running away from his responsibilities – but for the first time in his life he feels like he can, and that alone makes him feel lighter.

Whatever the road ahead may bring, Thorin already feels as if he made the right decision.

***

Not everybody quite shares their opinion. The King of Dorwinion is rather concerned – they have a responsibility for their guests, and would rather see them safely delivered back home. Bilbo, bless his smooth tongue, manages to convince him that they can look after themselves. He also manages to convince the King to hand them a letter granting them passage through every town and province of the realm, including free board and provisions.

Thorin knows he’ll not use that. Between the two of them, they carry enough gold and mithril to buy off the entire kingdom of Rhûn, but the fewer people in the know, the better. Not that this calms the poor captain from the Iron Hills.

“Lord Dain’s gonna have my beard,” the dwarf stammers, white as a sheet as he stares at Thorin and Bilbo.

“He won’t,” Bilbo promises with his nicest smile, “We already sent him a raven – he will not be expecting us back.”

Thorin nods along. He’s intending not to be here anymore once the replies arrive. And he hopes the recommendation he wrote for the captain will be enough to spare him from Dain’s temper. If not, Fili is bound to have a job for him.

Despite these protests, their plans go ahead quite well. Neither Thorin nor Bilbo feel like turning back, and when finally they get to speak with Rhûn’s chief advisor for the outer territories, they turn to each other and smile.

The man greets them in a richly furnished reception room, sitting cross-legged on several cushions. He has the leathery, sun-darkened skin Thorin has seen on many that have frequently traveled from the east - and on some of his kin in the years they were wandering.

“You look to travel east?” he greets them, drawing a lungful of smoke from a large, ornamental pipe, “A dwarf and a -?”

“A hobbit,” Bilbo chimes in cheerfully, “Bilbo Baggins, formerly of Bag End in the Shire.”

“Prince consort to the former King under the Mountain,” Thorin adds stiffly.

The man nods thoughtfully. “Even in the east the name of Erebor is known. You would be wise to employ it sparingly – your appearances alone are likely to draw attention.”

Thorin nods, and follows Bilbo as he sits down on the floor. A large, hand-drawn map is spread out on the ground, and Thorin can see the familiar shapes of Erebor, the Sea of Rhûn, the Misty Mountains. The geography of the West doesn’t seem quite correct – but his eyes are drawn to the east.

Even on this map, there are few marks between the sea of Rhûn and the Orocarni.

“Where do you want to travel?” the man asks, gesturing at the map.

Thorin fails to find any indication of the dwarven kingdoms in the Orocarni, though Bilbo leans forward with a thoughtful frown on his face. “The Orocarni Mountains,” he says, “Though I’m not exactly certain where there – we wanted to see if we could visit one of the dwarven kingdoms there.”

“The locations of those kingdoms are not very well known – it is unlikely you will find any map west of the eastern cities showing them,” the man replies.

Bilbo nods. “I was thinking it might make more sense to split up the journey into shorter legs. The Orocarni are quite far, after all.”

“Though I see very few cities between here and Gvinh – Gvinzaik,” Thorin’s tongue fumbles with the strange sounding name.

“Gvinzaik,” the man corrects, the name sounding more like Qinsaikh in his pronunciation, “And yes. My people have fixed no cities – we move with the seasons.”

Thorin looks at the map. “I suppose Gvinberj would also be a possibility, though it seems to relatively far up north.”

The man shakes his head. “Not at this time of the year. The roads to Gvinberj are only open in summer – the winters there are harsh; cold and brutal. Few dare to travel there, and fewer still ever make it.” He takes a whiff of his pipe and smiles slowly. “It lies high on the plains – the air there is thin and you will find it difficult to breathe. People there live of cattle, steeds and gold.”

“Gvarain gold,” Thorin murmurs, a distant memory coming to his mind. His grandfather had received a gift from that city, once. He also seems to recall that his grandfather had not been very impressed by the quality of the gold work.

“Yes, that is what they trade in,” the man confirms with a nod, “Though it’s not a place worth seeing.”

Bilbo does not look convinced, though the man continues on. “While my knowledge of the dwarven kingdoms in the east is not exact, I believe most lie to the south of the Orocarni. Except for the Ironfists who live in the far north, but they are said to be hostile.”

They did, however, nominally pledge loyalty to the Arkenstone, Thorin recalls. But he also remembers what the chronicles in Erebor said of these dwarves – fierce and brutal, merciless and swift. They do not like the line of Durin, nor do they like visitors.

“Traveling north in winter does not make much sense,” Thorin agrees, “Would you say that in Gvinzaik we might find further information?”

He smiles. “If anywhere, then there. Gvinzaik is the trade center for all traffic west of the Orocarni. It is no huge city like those here, you will find, but the traders there will know what roads to take, and what roads are safe.”

“So how do we get there?” Bilbo asks, his fingers gliding over the map.

“There are a few caravans that head directly from the sea to Gvinzaik,” he says, “But I would recommend you to travel to one of the wandering cities first. The road is long and will lead through desert – you are not used to these lands, and they are likely to wear you out. In the cities you will have a chance to rest and resupply. Or turn around if you find the road too harsh.”

Thorin can feel the man eyeing them. He must see their fine clothes, and maybe to him they seem delicate. But Thorin has led his people half-way across Arda fleeing from a dragon, and Bilbo has always proven hardier than anybody would expect.

They will make it.

“Where do we find those caravans?”

***

Bilbo watches the towers and houses of Rhunannon shrink in the distance as the expanse of glittering blue water between them grows. A sharp wind tears at his hair and clothes, but the sun is warm and the sky cloudless. It is a good day to travel.

“Do you regret it?” he asks Thorin. The dwarf once again wears simpler clothes and Bilbo thinks he looks more like himself than he has in a long time. He hopes Thorin does not regret his decision – because, unhobbit-like as it is, Bilbo is looking forward to seeing these distant lands. To going further east than any hobbit before him.

Thorin turns to him with a slight smile. “Not at all,” he says, warm affection lighting up his eyes, “But I think Fili won’t be too happy with us.”

“He’s been running Erebor on his own for long enough,” Bilbo replies, “He will be fine.”

Thorin nods, and they both turn to watch the city shrink further. They will stay on the ship for four days as they cross the sea of Rhûn toward southeast. There they will disembark into a small trading town and then join up with one of the caravans.

Travel through the vast lands until they reach one of the wandering cities. And then it is further east, to lands Thorin has scarcely had time to imagine.

Thorin reaches out to grasp Bilbo’s hand. The skin has gained more wrinkles since he first held it, but to him it feels as smooth as ever.

***

Leaving the ship they are greeted by a runner and lead toward one of the better inns in town. There, a man awaits them; his table covered with documents and his head with a colorful piece of fabric, pinned together with a golden brooch. It’s fine work, Bilbo thinks, and hopes they have not been saddled with a pompous royal clerk.

But when he glances up, Thorin finds a rather youthful face looking back at him.

“Ah, the former King under the Mountain and his Consort,” he greets, rises, and bows low, “Welcome to this small trading port. I trust your journey went well?”

A young, pompous clerk then, Bilbo thinks. “Quite,” he replies a little sharply, before Thorin can begin with his formalities, “But I believe we have not been introduced yet?”

The man abruptly grows nervous, visibly taken aback at Bilbo’s reaction. “Apologies, I’m Adin, loadmaster for … well, the King wrote me that you were planning to go all the way to Gvinzaik, and asked me to accompany you since I’m also traveling there.”

“All the way to Gvinzaik?” Thorin asks, astonished. By now he can pronounce the name almost flawlessly.

The young loadmaster smiles. “Yes, I usually do.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “You’ve traveled there before?”

“Yes, I oversee the delivery of valuable goods all the way to Gvinzaik. One time I had to go all the way through the Orocarni, but most goods can be transferred in Gvinzaik.”

“Wonderful!” Bilbo exclaims, his entire demeanor sparkling with excitement, and their poor clerk seems fairly astonished at the abrupt change, “Then you must know quite a bit about those lands. I was wondering, the dwarves in the Orocarni –“

“Adin!” another man shouts from nearby, and waves a parchment. He adds something else, but Bilbo doesn’t recognize the language – he’s caught snatches of it in the market, but never heard an entire sentence. It’s oddly fluent, a little sibilant, like a language suited to being whispered in extreme weather conditions.

“I’m sorry,” Adin inclines his head toward them, “There’s some matters I must oversee. Please feel free to look around – the town is mostly safe to explore. If you need anything, send a runner to find me!”

***

Thorin remembers having seen a camel once before. When he was a lad, a trader had brought one to Dale, and the news had spread to Erebor within moments. Dis had insisted they had to go and see the creature now, and their tutors had happily agreed – perhaps equally curious.

So Thorin had trudged to Dale with his siblings in a rare joint excursion, and they’d stared as the strange animal had munched on fresh hew, gazing at the spectators with a calm, almost disdainful expression. Thorin remembers asking many questions – what does it eat, why those humps, where do they come from –

Now he can see the same questions in Bilbo’s eyes. Around them the marketplace is busy, swarming with Easterling, traders from Rhûn and a few dwarves – wares and crates are brought together, the caravan leaders make lists, and the camels are loaded.

“Why not ponies?” Bilbo asks, looking away from his observations for a moment. They are seated to the side, enjoying a tea on the porch of a local tavern that allows a good view of the town square. To their right rise the solid walls of the town administration, a former palace, and along the street towers with onion-shaped roofs rise.

Thorin does have some recollections of his lessons. “They are studier, and actually live in the area. I think – especially further south – there is little water. They can go for a long time without – they store water in their humps. Camels are fairly robust animals.”

Bilbo nods, jots something down. “Then why aren’t we using them back in Erebor? If they’re that robust.”

Thorin shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. But I think they’re not too good with mountains.”

Bilbo hums, nods and turns his attentions back to the colorful happenings. A wagon loaded with wine flasks rolls past, followed by a herder leading cattle toward the central market. Porters and traders carry heavy sacks full of grain or small chests, undoubtedly filled with precious gems, or perhaps fake wares. Thorin leans back – their belongings are packed at the guest house, their camels watched over by a man the King of Rhûn arranged for them. Thorin doesn’t mind paying him good coin, if it means him and Bilbo can be idle spectators without a worry in the world.

And their meeting with the caravan leader – a tall, thin man with thick, leathery skin and a scar running down his cheek – had gone well. Thorin had expected disdain – taking along two travelers, regardless of their finances, means an additional burden. Means added requirements for food, water – and safety. Even out here, Thorin and Bilbo are still guests of the King of Rhûn, and any caravan taking them is likely to be aware of that.

Instead, he’d asked if they could fight. And while Bilbo still is not the most skilled fighter, Thorin merely inclined his head, had mentioned having fought at Azanulbizar and in the Battle of the Five Armies, and had shown Orcrist.

The leader’s eyes had widened and he had whistled. “That’s a nice sword, but to be expected, I suppose.”

“But, King under the Mountain, the desert does not care for fine swords and grand titles. It is no land that bows to anyone; not to men, nor dwarves, not elves. If you travel there, you must follow the rules of the land.”

Thorin’s stomach clenches, but Bilbo smiles. “You are not responsible for our fates,” he says lightly, and Thorin wonders if his own words so long ago sounded so ominous.

The man, however, breaks into a smile that reveals golden teeth. “Welcome to our caravan, little Masters.”

***

Their caravan numbers almost four hundred as it sets out before sunrise. Bilbo and Thorin find themselves traveling together with Adin, a small contingent of dwarves and Easterlings. The Easterlings they barely understand – not all speak Westron, but Bilbo makes an effort at conversation anyway.

Half of the caravan, Thorin and Bilbo are told, will not travel all the way to their destination – rather they will leave the caravan to head for the smaller settlements to the south and north or to join their nomad tribes.

“How would they know where to find them?” Bilbo asks.

The man displays a bright grin – not much of him is visible, hidden beneath long bands of cloth – and nods toward the distant hills. “The tribes usually stick to their territories,” he says in accented Westron, “They travel with the seasons.”

Bilbo nods, fumbling for his notebook. Considering that just this morning Bilbo had clung to his camel’s saddle and complained that camels were even taller than ponies, this is a rather quick acclimatization. Thorin still feels a bit at odds with his camel’s swaying gait. The saddle is certainly far more comfortable than any horse’s – and yet he thinks he’ll be walking cross-legged tonight.

“So I suppose they go south in winter?” Bilbo asks.

The man nods, quite taken with Bilbo’s enthusiasm. “Yes, most of the tribes will be here or further to the south now.”

He gestures at the green valleys to their south. It’s far from the Shire’s lush greenery, but its grass, and if legends are true and these lands turn brown in summer, Bilbo understands what this bit of grass means.

***

Days turn into weeks. Sometimes Thorin they come across herders driving their cattle south, and the caravan leaders take a break to exchange information.

The north, Adin translates for them one night, is becoming unstable. More and more of the eastern tribes are moving south these times, seeking to escape both strive and the winter.

“Is it a hard winter?” Bilbo asks as he tugs the collar of his fur coat a little higher. The days on the steppes are warm and comfortable, but temperatures drop once the sun vanished beyond the horizon and the stars come up.

“Quite from what I heard,” Adin confirms as he stirs their pot of stew. Behind them a cheer goes up as another group of travelers enjoys a game of dice.

Bilbo hums. “When I was a lad, there was a very bad winter where I lived,” he says, “We never had any trouble, but that year wolves came to our homes, and even orcs. The cold had driven them in, and we’re not a very warlike folk. Had we had more winters, we might have had to leave, too.”

Hobbits, leave the Shire? Thorin shakes his head at the notion. Though his heart clenches, for where would the hobbits go? Much of Eriador is well-split between the different realms, and those areas unclaimed may not be good for farming.

“While many of the tribes are skilled at hunting,” Adin replies, “Few are actually warriors. If they bound together, they are fearsome, but usually my kind prefers to eschew armed conflict.”

Thorin has occasion to recall these words a few nights later.

They met another group of herders on their way, this one a little larger than their previous encounters, and on the evening the caravan and the herders pitched their tents together, drank and celebrated. And then decides to have contests of skill.

Thorin finds himself challenged to a fight with weapons. Not to the death, though he is informed fighting to the death is a time-honored way of settling conflicts among some of the families. But until one yields or first blood is drawn – which requires Thorin to shed some of his garments, because, as Adin translates “the time they see you bleed with these many layers it’ll be too late.”

Bilbo makes an aborted gesture to stop Thorin, but then just shakes his head with a soft smile. “Do your best.”

Thorin doesn’t need very long to have his first opponent flat on the back. The crowd cheers and claps and shouts, and after that he faces a long line of challengers with the most curious weapons Thorin has ever seen.

By the time he levels Orcrist at the throat of his seventh challenger, he’s out of breath, sweating, and happier than he has been in a long time. His heart pounds, his muscles throb and Orcrist moves through the air like an extension of his body. It’s been too long since he had an opportunity to practice his skill like this – with no desperation fueling his movement, no danger preying on his life.

Instead challengers eight and nine serve as another opportunity for Thorin to practice and extend his skill, though when number ten makes to rise, he shakes his head and sheathes Orcrist.

“You were great,” Bilbo tells him later as they walk back to their tent with only the brightly shining stars for company, “It truly makes quite a difference, I suppose, how one learned to fight.”

Thorin chuckles. “In more manners than some expect, but if the numbers are not in your favor and you have no secret weapon or strategy, all the skill in the world will not save you.”

“Well, I’m lucky I have you, then,” he comments and links his arm with Thorin’s.

Thorin turns his head to kiss him lightly with the stars as their only witness. “I’m luckier,” he murmurs against Bilbo’s lips.

The hobbit laughs, and fumbles behind him to get the tent flap open. “Let’s see about that.”

***

And so their journey continues. Erebor must have long been covered under a thick blanket of snow, Bilbo thinks, as his camel continues east and further east. The few days they don’t see the sun are cold – there are no forests here to retain the warmth, and once the winds turn, they bring down icy air from the north.

At night, however, these cold days provide ample opportunity to snuggle up to Thorin, and enjoy that even on the road and so far from home, they lie on rich bedding under down blankets. The added privacy granted by the tent is also rather welcome (though riding all day usually wears them out too much for strenuous activities beyond lending a hand or a mouth).

They meet another caravan – and excitement spreads to their own.

Adin turns his camel back to meet Bilbo and Thorin. “We’ll reach the wandering city of the Mizbel tribe by nightfall. Expect to ride a little longer today, but you’ll sleep in real beds tonight.”

As Adin leaves back toward his place accompanying the goods of the caravan, Bilbo gives Thorin a wide smile. “A wandering city,” he says, “I wonder what that looks like.”

Thorin inclines his head and looks to the horizon. “I do, too,” he admits, because he cannot remember having heard of those even in his princely schooling back in Erebor. A light breeze sweeps in, plays with his hair and the long grasses on the ground, while Bilbo sits back on his seat (first he looked utterly out of place there. A hobbit on a camel? But he’s proven astonishingly adaptive; now he looks as if he’d been riding camels for all his life.)

“We’ll know tonight,” he says and leans forward to rub his camel’s neck, “And then you get a break, too, Caramel.”

Thorin blinks. “Caramel? You named your camel?”

Bilbo beams at him. “Yes. She’s sweet and tough lady.”

Thorin looks at the animal that – to him – looks no different than any of the other camels. She returns his gaze with intelligent, watchful eyes, and Thorin realizes he needs to reassess his initial opinion.

“Sticky as well?” he asks Bilbo.

The hobbit grimaces. “Well, have you tried feeding yours treats?”

***

The wandering city turns out a maze of wide, elaborate tents, with smaller tents strewn in between. Wooden structures form pens and mobile watch towers, while colorful flags flutter from ropes tied between the tent roofs.

“These are for blessings,” Adin explains as he guides Bilbo and Thorin through the labyrinth.

“Whom do they pray to?” Thorin asks, dimly recalling a lesson on the strange gods of the Easterlings. Bilbo’s gaze is glued to the fluttering pieces of fabric; studying the patterns and inscriptions upon them.

Adin shrugs. “All of them, I suppose. It doesn’t matter whom you pray to – if you look closely, you’ll find references to Mahal - it’s what you pray for.”

Bilbo nods. “That seems rather pragmatic.”

“Well, not all tribes,” Adin adds, “Some have their own gods and rituals, but many of them eschew these larger cities and keep their own council.”

Which seems a far better solution than the war-faring approaches so popular among the western kingdoms Thorin has grown to know. But then, the east is big and sparsely populated. It is easy here to travel for days and not see another soul.

The lively atmosphere in the wandering city now almost seems like too much.

“Ahead lies the market square,” Adin continues, “They usually trade goods for goods here, but you’ll find most are willing to accept coin as well, or find somebody to negotiate a go-between. Few speak Westron, though.”

But they’ll understand gold coins, Thorin thinks. And Bilbo has already proven himself skilled at conversing with his hand and feet, and also taken notes from their fellow travelers on their languages. They will manage.

“Beyond, near the western end of the city, you’ll find another square – that one’s used for celebrations and games. Come there tonight, and there’ll likely be a feast of some sort going on, or a competition. I think I’ll be there as well,” Adin informs them.

“What will you do now?” Bilbo asks.

“Oversee that the goods are stored,” Adin says, “And then meet some friends and relatives.” He smiles, and looks younger all of a sudden.

“Your family lives here?” Bilbo inquires.

“Well, sort of. I’m an orphan, and the tribe took me in. It’s why I took work with the caravans,” he shrugs, and Thorin senses a kernel of grief to his words, but Adin looks happy enough. And Thorin can understand that kind of adapting to circumstances.

***

By the time the sun sets, Thorin is more inclined to lie back and go to sleep. Bilbo is bent over his notebook, sketching something down in the glow of an iron-wrought lantern that casts intricate patterns all over their carpet-covered tent floor. The flap is opened a slit, allowing for the cooler night air to carry in the faint sounds of music and laughter.

“Oh, they have begun,” Bilbo comments, setting down his book, “Shall we go?”

Thorin grumbles, his eyelids heavy, and Bilbo laughs. “Come on, let’s go! We can sleep as long as we want tomorrow! I’d like to see the feast!”

And so they wander in, two small figures among a crowd of celebrating men in colorful coats. Many wear scarfs wrapped around their heads, decorated with strings of pearl and gold, and they sit around huge fires where entire oxen are being roasted. Children run between them, laughing and shouting, and for a moment Bilbo and Thorin hover on the fringes.

Then Bilbo spies a group of men having some sort of competition that involves throwing balls.

Moments later Thorin sits on a carpet, toasting with men in a language he doesn’t understand and drinking a drink he doesn’t know, while Bilbo proceeds to win every challenge thrown his way. The men cheer and jeer, amused and impressed by their diminutive challenger.

Somebody pats Thorin’s back, points to Bilbo and says something, and Thorin doesn’t know what is said, but he smiles and lifts his glass in a cheer.

The man laughs, and Thorin wonders just what he confirmed. But, and here he allows himself to relax, because no kingdom depends on his diplomatic actions. And even if he doesn’t perform well, it will not affect any innocent bystanders. Regardless of what impression he and Bilbo leave-

In a few days they will travel onward. And at some point, this city will move on. Some of its inhabitants might turn into other directions. The city might grow, might disperse. But there is little chance that they will ever cross ways again.

And while it’s a sad thought, it means Thorin will now enjoy the situation as much as he can. Every moment on this journey, he begins to realize, is a once in a lifetime opportunity. What he does not take, what he does wrong, will not come to haunt him. But these moments will also not come back – so he’d better use them as he wishes.

A loud cheer goes up, as Bilbo wins another round. Somebody gives him a far too large mug filled with clear liquid – not water, Bilbo quickly realizes, spluttering and coughing as his throat seems to catch fire and the men around him laugh even louder.

He shouts something in their language – he must have picked it up during their trek – and the men toast him. It takes Thorin an embarrassingly long moment to realize that what the crowd is chanting is actually Bilbo’s name, sounding at once foreign and familiar in the lilting local dialect.

Thorin raises his mug and joins the chorus.

By the time they stumble back toward their tent, they are both more than slightly tipsy. Bilbo has been gifted a cloak and headscarf fashioned with local patterns, declaring him an honorary member of another tribe, and Thorin’s purse has lightened by a few rubies. It turns out the men had never seen the cut rubies that are quite common in Erebor. So in a fit of generosity and levity, he’d given out a few, and likely won himself friends for a lifetime.

Bilbo leans heavily on his arm as they fumble with tent flap and tumble inside. Thorin’s foot catches on something, and he loses his balance – but manages to land flat on the bedrolls, and Bilbo drops himself on top of him.

“You oaf,” Bilbo chuckles, setting himself upright, his hands trailing over Thorin’s chest. Thorin’s hands find the familiar rounds of Bilbo’s hips, and the hobbit’s smile stretches wider. He looks enticing, with his headscarf and suntanned cheeks, beautiful and ageless, and Thorin pushes himself up to catch those lips in a kiss.

***

As they left a good impression on that first night, Bilbo and Thorin find themselves quite welcome all around the wandering city. It’s larger than they expected, they realize on the following day, when a shortcut turns into a half-day excursion spent wandering through surprisingly similar-looking passageways. On their way they get invited for tea several times which makes their excursion even longer.

Much of the wandering city is living space for the families. Those tents are spacious on the inside – far grander than the one Bilbo and Thorin share – some even having an upper floor for sleeping. One of the women who speaks a little Westron explains that when they travel, the space below may be opened for the family animals in bad weather, but in the city it’s a space for cooking and living and showing guests the trophies earned herding.

There are grand competitions held in the eastern steppes once autumn comes – a smaller one is held during their stay, where both Bilbo and Thorin marvel at the riding skills on display. Thorin declines to join another bout of fighting, but he watches the movements closely.

Bilbo introduces the game of conkers.

And by the time their caravan has to leave again, Bilbo has collected a wagon’s load of gifts. Quite a few people gather to see them off, and Bilbo turns from waving to Thorin with a wistful smile.

“It makes you somewhat sad,” he says, “I don’t think we’ll ever see them again.”

Thorin looks at the sheer endless world ahead, feels his body reacquaint himself to the swaying gait of his camel and smiles.

“But we met them, and made the best of it.”

“Aye,” Bilbo agrees, “It was amazing.”

***

The days pass, and the landscape changes. Soon the grassland grows drier, and from a green carpet they begin to only pass single grassy patches. Above the sky clears of clouds, and the sun grows nigh unbearable.

Their leader announces they will soon cross the northern end of the great eastern desert. It will take them four days – or rather nights, since crossing the desert during daytime is near madness. Thorin glances at the sky and squints. His own body is beginning to feel the strain, but dwarves are hardy.

Bilbo quite obviously struggles with dry air. He bears it with good humor, however, and his friends in the caravan do their best to help him. They teach him how to wrap the scarfs and fabrics he was gifted in the wandering city as they do, while Thorin struggles on in his heavier dwarven clothes.

The fur coat is hot when the sun burns down from a cloudless sky, but welcome amid the icy gusts of wind that howl over the desert and during the cold nights.

But as the ground grows sandier and the sun hotter, Thorin accepts Bilbo’s offer of sharing his fabrics and clothes. The garments are well-suited to keeping the sun from his skin, though he wonders if his nose will ever recover its former color. Bilbo’s nose, too, has grown near constantly red, and there are patches of color on his cheeks where the fabric does not cover his skin.

One day they set up camp early, and once more Adin comes to find Bilbo and Thorin. “We’ll be crossing the sand plains. It’s a shortcut that’ll save us nearly five days, but it means three days of nothing but sand. Make sure to fill up your water skins.”

Thorin and Bilbo look at each other.

It sounds dangerous, Thorin thinks. A part of him is worried. Another part wonders what this part of the world looks like.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo observes one night later as they sit atop a sand dune and watch the sun set toward the west, “It seems the sand changes its color with every hour that passes.”

“It’s because the sun wanders across the sky,” Thorin replies. Sand, fine as it is, registers as rock to dwarves. Not one he’d know how to work with – but he understands the principle that lets the dunes appear bright orange under the midday sun and pink in evening light. “Once the moon comes up, it’ll look blue.”

“Hmmm,” Bilbo agrees and Thorin notices his eyes are drooping. Feeling tired himself, he allows his body to tilt toward Bilbo’s, and they stay there, watching the sun vanish and the sand grown pink and purple and finally blue.

***

The city of Gvinzaik is pleasantly warm, considering that by now Erebor must lie under meters of snow. Here the air remains mild even at the height of winter. Only a sharp wind from the desert chills the air, Bilbo learns as he strolls through the markets, and carries copious amounts of sand into the city's cobble-stoned streets.

Most of Gvinzaik sprawls around the palace – a massive fortress sitting high on an island in the middle of the Great East River – but stretching far to the north and south among the river banks. A multitude of boats sails up and down, and from one shore to another. Not too few of the traders sailing are dwarves, dressed in clothing styles Thorin only vaguely recalls.

At least that means to the men here his appearance is not that unusual, and they usually regard Bilbo as a smaller dwarf. The hobbit by now does not immediately protest – trying to explain just what hobbits are has caused more than one look of disbelief during their journey here, and some outright accused Bilbo of lying.

Halflings, so locals say, are fairytale creatures.

Others look at Bilbo with unbridled curiosity.

“There is a rumor,” Adin tells them when they sit down at their guesthouse one evening, “A local myth of small people, about half the height of grown men.”

“Not dwarves?” Bilbo asks with some amusement, while unwrapping the pipe weed he bought at the market.

Adin chuckles. “People here know dwarves. Or, well,” he corrects as he looks to Thorin, “They know a type of dwarf.”

More often than not, the traders take Thorin to be a particularly small man. His clothes are unlike what the local dwarves wear, and so are his features.

“What do the rumors say? Those of hobbits,” Thorin inquires and takes a deep breath as the sudden rich smell of pipe weed fills the air. It’s far spicier than what he’s used to, almost fruity.

“This is sweet!” Bilbo exclaims, sounding quite elated as his findings.

“Sweet pipe weed is what many here prefer,” Adin explains, “Most of the nomadic folk think you northerners are rather odd in your tastes. But, regarding hobbits – there’s not much to the rumors. They claim there exists some sort of magical lands or isolated communities. Sometimes they say these people are skilled fighters, others say they come at night and steal your valuables.”

Adin chuckles and takes a sip of his tea – a local specialty Bilbo adores and Thorin abhors, though they both agree that it does strange things to their stomach.

“Your typical rumors, as you see.”

Thorin nods to Adin’s words, his mind already wandering over to the other things they need to discuss. How to continue from here on; will Adin come with them further east, and

“Actually, it does sound a lot like hobbits,” Bilbo suggests lightly, “If those valuables are silver spoons, I’d think they met my cousin in law.”

“Is she a fierce warrior?” Thorin inquires.

Bilbo purses his lips. “In her own way. You know I had to fight rather hard for her to return my possessions.”

Thorin chuckles at the memory. When he’d first returned to the Shire, Bilbo had written long letters to Erebor complaining about stubborn hobbits, unreasonable aunts and his terrifying cousin. In turn, Thorin had offered to send him a garrison of dwarven warriors to help – Dwalin would’ve gladly led the excursion. Bilbo had declined, naming the Hobbitish style of warfare out of dwarven reach – “you could get rid of them, I guess, but they’d still be talking ten generations later. No, here you have to kill the rumor.”

When Thorin returns to himself, Adin is unrolling maps on the low table between them. “I procured these on the market,” he says, “They should be up to date – look here, this is Gvinzaik, and the other side of the river. Heading straight should get you to the Orocarni within six days, but I couldn’t get a precise answer on where the entrance to the dwarven kingdom lies. One should be close, though it seems they don’t like to share this information with non-dwarves.”

Thorin nods. “I’ll make inquiries then.”

“What will you do?” Bilbo asks of Adin.

Adin shrugs. “See you settled, and collect the wares for the return caravan.”

“You’re going back to Rhûn?”

“All the way.”

Bilbo nods, impressed, and Thorin has to agree. He’s enjoyed the leisure travel with the caravan – yet to spend most of his life this way seems daunting. Once more he’s rather happy to stay in the same place for a few days – and Gvinzaik offers ample of distractions.

“You needn’t wait,” Bilbo offers, “We can make our own arrangements.” Westron is spoken far more frequently in the city, though the local dialect tends to render it nearly incomprehensible at times.

“It’s likely we’ll stay a day longer or so,” Thorin adds.

Adin studies them closely for a moment. Then he smiles. “Very well,” he says, “From what I saw, I think you’ll do quite well. So may your roads be forever full of peace and plenty.”

***

They spend several days then exploring the city at their leisure. Gvinzaik is small, smaller perhaps than even the wandering city of tents. But its narrow streets are bustling with traders and wares and people, and Thorin attempts to converse with the local dwarven traders. It takes a moment for them to warm up – and their information is concerning.

There is a kingdom fairly near, ruled by the Blacklock clan – another family that swore loyalty to the Arkenstone, and was not heard from again. Though in light of the enormous distance, Thorin will not blame them. They likely only received the news years after Erebor had fallen.

What worries him more is the secrecy with which the entrance to the kingdom is guarded. Bandits often prey upon traders travelling back and forth, which is why the Blacklocks prefer to stick to secrecy.

Though, the dwarf assures Thorin, if he follows the visible path, he should recognize the markings leading toward the gate.

Bilbo looks unimpressed when he hears Thorin’s report. “Dwarf doors are terrible to find,” he complains, “Remember Erebor’s secret entrance? We’d never have found it hadn’t the moon come up just right!”

“But you found it,” Thorin replies.

***

“So what do we do now?” Bilbo asks, stepping out on the wooden balcony of their room next to Thorin. Twilight has settled over the city, the first lights have come on and a smell of spicy food wafts up from the streets below. Overhead, the sky is pink and orange, growing blue to the east – where distantly the shapes of the Orocarni Mountains hover.

“Head back? Caravans are leaving for the wandering cities about every other day as Adin said, so there should be one the day after tomorrow,” Bilbo continues, “Though I don’t know about after – I suppose the river will still be frozen, and I don’t know about you, but traveling to Erebor in winter…”

Will certainly not be pleasant, Thorin thinks. If they travel slowly they might arrive in early spring, though the snows around Erebor often last late into the year.

“Or shall we go on?” Bilbo suggests, following Thorin’s gaze. “Try the Orocarni? It sounded difficult, but we’ve already come so far. Do you think the Blacklocks there will receive visitors?”

Thorin shifts to look at Bilbo. The hobbit’s cheeks remain colored from their journey, and his hair has grown lighter – but it is a good, healthy look on him, and Thorin finds the journey has helped him regain an equilibrium he did not realize he had lost.

“While dwarven kingdoms are not known to be as open as the cities of men,” he says, “Unless in a state of war, we do greet and accommodate visitors. The Ironfists are a notorious exception, but from what I heard the Blacklocks ought to have no such misgivings.”

“And they might recognize one Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo adds with a smile, “I heard the rumors in the market today. Somebody claimed to have recognized you, though quite a lot doubted his word.”

It’s both frightening and elating that his name has been heard even in this corner of the world. Being a prince, Thorin had grown up to expect it, though the bitter years of exile had turned him bitter on it. Now, he is astonished to find that some already whisper of his quest against the dragon.

And one child he’d heard humming the song Erebor’s bards had written to commemorate these events.

Thorin’s brow wrinkles. “I’d rather … not go on a diplomatic visit.”

“Then we’ll go incognito,” Bilbo cheerfully suggests, “I doubt anybody would believe us, anyway.”

Thorin looks east again. The sky there has grown dark, swallowed the mountains. But Bilbo is right – they travelled farther on his own; this distance is unlikely to be dangerous. A popular trading route will be busy and guarded, and he is still a skilled warrior.

And if he is honest with himself, there is a part of him that wishes to see those kingdoms. Now that he has spied the shadow of the Orocarni on the other side of the river, he wants to see them up close.

He turns to smile at Bilbo. “Yes,” he agrees, “Yes. Let’s go and see them.”

Bilbo’s smile lights up his entire face and he flings his arms around Thorin. They stumble back from the balcony, but the night has darkened already. A cooler breeze follows them inside, sending goosebumps down Thorin’s arms while Bilbo’s hands snake under his shirt.

If they leave, they will have to make do without proper beds soon.

Better they use the opportunity while they still have it.

  _tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we're off to see mountains again in chapter 3. With perhaps an unexpected encounter on the way there.
> 
> Also, there is and will be art for this fic. Have look at either [Quel's tumblr](www.tosquinha.tumblr.com) or [mine](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	3. Hobbits in the East (And a Sea of Stars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo leave Gvinzaik. They cross the river and follow the path to the mountains, and - after a run-in with bandits - discover something unexpected.

Two days after, Bilbo and Thorin cross the river that splits the city of Gvinzaik. The waters are choppy, and if Bilbo grips Thorin’s arm a little harder than necessary, Thorin fails to comment. They are wrapped in non-descript clothes, their coin and swords well-hidden. From here on, they will be entirely on their own.

Bilbo hums to himself as the boat moves under his feet. They’ve been away from home for so long already. And still, he only smiles when he thinks of the adventure that is to come.

A gust of wind makes the boat sway sharply. Foam spray up and Bilbo tightens his grip on Thorin. Thorin raises an eyebrow. “Half a world away and you still don’t like sailing?”

“I know it’s far more comfortable than walking,” Bilbo replies as the boat rights itself and thankfully the eastern shore isn’t far. “But I’m still a hobbit.”

“Though you did learn how to swim.”

“Yes,” Bilbo sighs, “You dwarves wouldn’t allow me back to Laketown otherwise, in case you have forgotten.”

During the second summer in Erebor the dwarves had made a challenge out of teaching Bilbo how to swim. With the hobbit there to stay, Laketown once again rebuilt as a harbor, and a growing popularity of taking a splash in the pools on Ravenhill, swimming had become a necessary skill. And now Thorin doesn’t have to fear for Bilbo anytime he goes near a larger body of water.

“Oh, I do,” Thorin chuckles.

Bilbo glances down – the water is murky, brown-red, thanks to the sand it carries. It flows swiftly toward the south, where the river disappears around a bend. Many of the smaller boats making the crossing operate along ropes fixed across the river to avoid ending up much further south than intended.

“I don’t think it’s very deep,” Thorin comments, “The boats all are built light; they won’t sink much. And in the summer months, there won’t be much water here at all.” The people of Gvinzaik spoke of hot desert wind carrying in the red sands from the desert.

Bilbo nods, gazes north. Outside of the city walls, green fields line the river. But the mountains beyond that are dusty and dry, with only sparse vegetation. At least, he thinks, they’ve left the sand dunes of the desert behind – and the Orocarni are supposed to be not quite so dry.

***

After disembarking and several lengthy consultations of their map, they are on their way. Buildings give way to lush green fields, and soon the path begins to climb. They continue east, following the path as it narrows and the last traces of civilization disappear.

Once they reach the first ridge, they stop. Below lies the wide river and on the other side the red, sand-washed building of Gvinzaik with their white tiles.

“It’s an amazing place,” Bilbo states.

Thorin nods in agreement. “In its own way.”

Bilbo laughs. “Not all places in the world can be a grand as Erebor! And you have to admit the palace was quite splendid!”

“Well, we can always stay longer if you wish to,” Thorin offers with a chuckle.

Bilbo elbows him. “Actually, I’m quite curious about those mountains. And don’t tell me, you aren’t looking forward to that either!”

***

It should take them six days to reach the hidden entrance to the Blacklock kingdom if they make good time. Bilbo expects them to take seven, because even though Thorin is a dwarf, he anticipates the clues to the entrance will be fairly well hidden.

Overhead, the sun shines from a cloudless sky, leaving the air pleasantly warm. It’s a beautiful day for walking and Bilbo soon finds himself humming under his breath. They take a short break for noon atop another ridge. Thorin scans the distant mountains for signs of inhabitation, leading Bilbo to comment “No giant dwarven statues here?”

Thorin chuckles. “They are hiding their gates. Giant statues might be counterproductive.”

In the afternoon they find a small stream which they follow into a short canyon. It’s protected to both sides by steep cliffs; the ground smoothened by water. In spring, Bilbo thinks, the entire canyon is likely flooded.

“Shall we camp here tonight?” he asks. The smooth ground will make for a good resting place.

Thorin studies the rock walls, as well as the entrance and exit to the canyon. It’s not an ideal place, Bilbo recognizes as well, but they’ve barely passed another soul all day and to him the area feels safe. And then Thorin points out a rather well-hidden nook behind a larger rock.

“That ought to serve us well,” he comments.

“Indeed,” Bilbo returns, “I would’ve missed it.”

So they set down their packs there, and then head back toward the stream with their provisions. While those roast slowly over a fire, the sun sinks down in the west, casting a dramatic purple glow over the lands. Bilbo smiles, watches as the rock before them changes color and attempts to sketch it. His notebook is filling fast, though it stopped looking orderly shortly after they left Rhûn. Now, it is a collection of sketches, impressions, short notes and longer, contemplative ramblings.

Next to him, Thorin allows the water to cool his feet and watches the stars rise. A new ease relaxes the line of his shoulders, Bilbo observes. The silver streaks in his hair shine in the dying sunlight, tempting Bilbo to reach out and touch them. Instead, his eyes glide across Thorin’s face – bronzed from their travels so far. But it’s as if their journey is reducing the stress lines there.

Bilbo chuckles quietly to himself, turns back to the page of his book. A rough sketch of the landscape spans the entire page; it will never truly capture the place or its atmosphere, and Bilbo’s skills at drawing are a far cry from Ori’s, yet it’s not too bad. And the small sketch of Thorin he draws on the page’s lower bottom ends up looking nice, too, for once.

They remain there until the sun has gone down and the stars come out. An owl hoots in the distance, the air begins to grow cooler. Bilbo shuffles closer to Thorin, leans against him as the night sky unfolds its grand beauty.

“Some of them are so different,” Bilbo mumbles, mesmerized by the stars’ glowing lights. “Do you think they have stories, too?”

Thorin nods. “I suppose so.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right. After all, back in the First Age, Cuiviénen was somewhere in this area, was it not? They must have spun the tales of the stars, back then.”

“They might have. But Cuiviénen is roughly a thousand miles to our northwest.”

“Oh. Well – the stars probably did not look that much different there. Even here,” Bilbo’s voice grows quieter with fatigue, “The stars do not look so unfamiliar.”

When his head slumps against Thorin’s shoulder, the former King under the Mountain turns to his beloved with a gentle smile. A part of him marvels at how they got to be here – so far away from their homes, without even a guard – while simultaneously he’s grateful for those quiet, undisturbed hours they share.

The bitter hand fate dealt him originally has since turned. And Thorin is thankful for the opportunity he has been given.

As Bilbo begins to snore softly, Thorin carefully draws him into his arms and carries him toward their camp. Lies down next to his hobbit, draws the blanket over the two of them, and while deeply-ingrained memory tells him to set a watch, these lands are safe.

***

Bilbo doesn’t quite share Thorin’s assessment come morning, and Thorin has to admit it was rather a crass slip of judgment. True, the stone would have protected them from discovery, but they did not cover their tracks particularly well. They agree to set watches during the following night, and soon are on their merry way.

By late noon they have reached the top of another small ridge. The Orocarni have come closer – they tower in the background, their bodies red and brown and orange and with glaciers covering their lofty peaks. A wide, lush valley stretches from south to north between their ridge and the main mountain chain.

“Anything that points to a dwarven kingdom?” Bilbo inquires.

Thorin frowns. “Nothing I can see.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo shrugs, “I guess if we stay on the path we should get somewhere.”

Thorin hopes so too.

As they descend into the forest, the air around them grows cooler. The path widens, though the trees seem to grow closer and closer, the darkness between them growing. While it’s quite different from Mirkwood, Thorin begins to feel ill at ease.

Maybe dwarves simply aren’t meant for forests.

By nightfall even Bilbo can’t quite uphold his cheer. They agree to pitch their camp a little off the path – they’ve seen signs of other travelers, and while those are likely traders, they’d rather not risk discovery after nightfall.

“But let’s make certain we don’t lose the path again,” Bilbo proclaims as he gets yarn and scissors from the depth of his pack. Under Thorin’s curious gaze, he proceeds to tie a string around one of the larger rocks that intermittently line the wayside (intentionally put dwarven markers, Thorin recognizes) and brings the string all the way back to their camp.

Lying between grass and leaves, it’s invisible.

“Why didn’t you tie it to tree?” Thorin asks, while he busies himself sorting through their provisions. They have enough still to be picky – but perhaps they should finish the fresh fruit within the next days.

Bilbo sits back and accepts a pear from Thorin. “Back at home, we used to have a forest that felt a little like this,” he explains, “And – feel free to laugh – there was a rumor the trees in there could move. So we were taught to look for the rocks and not the trees if we ever got lost in there.”

“That’s fairly clever,” Thorin admits, and can’t quite keep himself from chortling. “Though moving trees…”

“We saw moving mountains,” Bilbo reminds him drily. “Walking trees seem rather unsurprising after that.”

“That wasn’t my best day.” Thorin states with a frown, remembering his rather harsh words to Bilbo. He doesn’t often think on those days now – but somehow their journey now brings forth the memories of their first adventure together.

“I don’t think that was anybody’s best day,” Bilbo comments lightly, “Including the Stone Giants. And you know, you did save my life, back then.” He shudders. “Hobbits aren’t meant for mountains. Those heights were terrifying.”

“Says the hobbit who moved into a mountain,” Thorin teases gently, “And who is about to visit the highest mountains on this world.”

Bilbo laughs, his voice bright in the darkness of the forest. “Yes, well, you get the odd unhobbitish hobbit every now and then I suppose.”

***

They keep following the path the next day, though their progress remains frustratingly slow. The path winds and twists, and Thorin would’ve long thought them turned around if not for the marking stones he sees in regular intervals. The light changes, but when they manage to catch a glimpse of the mountains, they don’t seem to have come any closer.

Thorin feels himself grow tense.

At first he tries to convince himself that the air is at fault. The still air and the soft ground – until he notices, that Bilbo, too, looks to their left and right more frequently than usual.

He feels watched.

Thorin closes up to Bilbo as inconspicuously as possible.

“We’re being followed,” he hisses, making certain to keep his body language as relaxed as possible. His hand remains close to his sword.

Bilbo gulps. “I thought so,” he whispers back. “How many?”

“I don’t know. A small band.”

“Orcs?”

“No.” At least Thorin does not think so. The traces he saw – that he thought were traders – point to men rather than orcs or dwarves. But the eyes he feels glued to his back feel hostile.

“What do we do?” Bilbo asks.

The forest around them has fallen silent. It’s the quiet before the storm.

Thorin takes a deep breath. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand. “On my signal,” he returns, “We run south.”

He can feel the shudder running through Bilbo’s body. How he’d hoped not to encounter trouble. And here they are at a disadvantage – they do not know the area, do not know how many lie in wait, and do not have a single guard with them.

Maybe traveling alone was a foolish idea after all.

Thorin sees a batch of leaves move against the wind diagonally ahead. The next moment he pushes Bilbo off path, his heart in his throat as an arrow slams into a tree trunk where Bilbo had just been. The hobbit gasps for air, stumbles, stares, and that was far too close, and Thorin’s pulse is racing, but they’re running, tearing through the undergrowth as angry shouts rise behind them.

They fly forward, slipping and stumbling, dodging around trees. The footsteps of their pursuers pound after them. Yelling in a foreign language. But it’s not that close, and maybe -

Something slams into Thorin’s side, he gasps, falters, pain explodes, but Bilbo runs ahead of him, tugs him forward. Eyes wide, hair flying, Bilbo’s hand clutches his. Thorin grinds his teeth, forces his sluggish body forward, cold sweat covering his face.

The wood thickens, their pursuers slow.

The shouting behind them fades, and Bilbo leads them deeper into the shrubbery, finding his way through thickets and between dark trees. They’re smaller than the men, and that works to their advantage as the greenery hides them from view.

They continue into the undergrowth, even long after the sounds of their pursuers have faded. Only a long while later they allow their steps to slow.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Thorin gasps, the pain from his wound growing hotter with each passing moment. He’s limping, he knows, and Bilbo casts him uneasy looks every other moment.

“No,” he replies, “I think I could lead us back, but…”

“It won’t be safe,” Thorin concludes and winces as a particular bad movement pulls at the wound. He presses a hand against it –the arrow didn’t even pierce anything, merely tore through his clothes and the topmost layers of skin and tissue. But the skin feels tight already, and Thorin fears it may have been poisoned.

Bilbo nods, bites his lower lip. “If we turn west, we could head back to the city. I doubt the robbers would pursue us there.”

“We’d have to stay off the path for most of it.”

Which means scrambling through unexplored territory, far from every path – on limited time.

“We’ll make it,” Bilbo declares with forced determination. There is, Thorin realizes, no other option. He’s not going to leave Bilbo alone so far from home; they must get back to Gvinzaik.

***

They limp on, westward this time. Bilbo assures Thorin he knows the direction, while Thorin’s mind grows ever fuzzier. He leans heavily on Bilbo; every step sending new bursts of pain through his body. Sweat soaks his shirt and makes his hair stick to his skin in dark clumps.

Bilbo carefully wipes away the sweat during a short break. Cleans out the wound, too, and the sharp sting of the solution brings Thorin back to his senses.

He urges them on. Once he is insensible, moving them will become difficult for Bilbo. And he’s afraid, afraid of having their adventure end here. Maybe he should have seen it coming – maybe he had been too happy, maybe he should have remembered that for him happiness was never in the stars.

Maybe he –

The woods have fallen silent once again.

Thorin lifts his head, abruptly aware on the eyes trailing them. He’s short of breath and his limbs tremble, but he detaches himself from Bilbo, reaches for his sword.

“Show yourself!” he demands. If the robbers found them, Thorin will try to take them out. With Bilbo’s help, they might just be able to do it. But he’s not going to make a run for it a second time. (He cannot).

He lets go of Bilbo, staggers forward and draws Orcrist.

“Thorin,” Bilbo watches him with concern.

“Come out!”

Something rustles in the bushes.

Bilbo pales. Draws Sting.

Thorin catches sight of a shadow moving between the trees. But it’s not just one – two, three, six, eight. Too many. Far too many. He grits his teeth – this is not how they’re supposed to die. Their little adventure wasn’t to end like this. They still need to return to Erebor, to go home – he wanted to see the Lonely Mountain again, and his family, and he knows Bilbo wishes the same, and –

A spear emerges from a bush. Bilbo stumbles backward, against Thorin.

They are surrounded, Thorin realizes.

Something is shouted at him.

It’s no language Thorin comprehends. He sucks in a sharp breath – fights to pull himself together. With communication rendered impossible, they’ll have to fight. Fight or die –

Bilbo lowers his sword. Blinks. Looks at Thorin with wide eyes, while the shout comes again.

And then Bilbo opens his mouth and says something Thorin cannot understand.

Another phrase is called out.

Bilbo replies.

Finally one of their enemies steps out of the shadows of the trees. It’s a small creature, just a little taller than Bilbo, with large, bare feet and braided, curly hair. Underneath a grey cloak, Thorin can just spy a patch of green-patterned fabric. Pointed ears peak out between brown curls.

Thorin’s feverish mind makes a suggestion.

But that cannot be.

Hobbits only live in the Shire. They Shire is half a world away.

Thorin glances to Bilbo, finds him pale, yet composed, and he isn’t sure if Bilbo is seeing the same as he is, but he can’t understand what Bilbo is saying any longer. His hobbit speaks glibberish, points to Thorin, himself, toward the mountains and the city. The other lowers his spear, and more creatures – hobbits? – emerge from the surrounding woods; at least fifteen.

His mind spins, and he almost misses Bilbo turning to him, an utterly bemused expression on his face “They speak the weirdest form of Hobbitish I’ve ever heard,” he declares.

“Hobbitish?” Thorin echoes, his mind struggling to register that such a thing exists, that this is real and not just a phantom his mind created, “They’re hobbits?” His voice must begin to slur, because Bilbo’s face twists with worry.

“Yes, they are,” he replies and reaches out to steady Thorin. “Are you alright? Thorin? Thorin!”

***

The local hobbit community, Bilbo learns quickly, is utterly suspicious of outsiders. Only the fact that he is a hobbit himself and his shaky grasp on the old Hobbitish dialect allowed him entry – and he nearly had to beg them to help Thorin. When their little troupe finally emerges from the forest into a small vale – well-hidden between the forest and the mountains – he is only thankful for their help, and in no shape to appreciate the familiar but actually quite different style of housing.

“The robbers like to poison their arrows,” the local healer explains to Bilbo after he finishes washing out Thorin’s wound, “It’s a simple mixture they learned from the tribes that used to prey on the caravans. Easily healed, but out there, folks die before they get an antidote.”

Ice runs through Bilbo’s veins and he shudders at the thought.

“But he’ll be alright?” he asks and his grip on Thorin’s hand tightens.

“Right as rain,” the healer returns, “Let him rest and give him a few good meals. You both could use some, I suppose. Must’ve been travelling for a while.”

Living among dwarves has long since taken away the sting Bilbo once felt at never having grown into a properly rounded hobbit again. Now, he finds himself merely blinking at the healer. “We have. We –“

“What do you say? He calls himself Baggins?” somebody shouts, and the door to the healers little hut is thrown open. An elderly hobbit, bowed over a walking stick, marches in, accompanied by a more pompous dressed lady.

“Ah yes,” the healer says with no small sigh, “Master Baggins, please meet Misses Honghua, our major. She has some questions, I believe.”

Bilbo nods, his eyes mesmerized by the other hobbit. He’s grown old, but among the unfamiliar features of the local hobbits, he looks awfully familiar.

“Baggins maybe,” he grumbles, drawing far too close and studying Bilbo’s face intently, “But that’s a Took nose if ever I saw one.” He shakes his head, and then leans in even further. “I know those eyes.”

“Uncle Hildifons?” Bilbo mumbles.

The elder’s eyes dramatically. “Uncle? You’re Bella’s son?! And a Baggins? I knew she was crazy, but I didn’t know it went that far! I should’ve never have let that wizard talk me into leaving!”

Bilbo’s mouth opens and shuts several times as he alternates between scandalized, shocked and plain flabbergasted – several years ago he’d have dead fainted in this situation, but at least he’s spared that indignity now. “I, really, you – they told me you vanished! People thought you were dead!”

“Hmph,” Hildifons squares his shoulders. “That suits me just fine. Never liked that bunch of liars and backstabbers. Let them think I’m dead, that’s quite alright!”

A spark of defensiveness rises in Bilbo’s chest, though he catches it. He’s not talked much more kindly of his fellow hobbits himself; it just sounds far harsher hearing it coming from somebody else.

“I, we –“

“But what even brought you here, boy? Don’t tell me you traveled halfway across the world just to settle some family issue? They’re mad back there, but I’d think a Baggins would’ve more sense.” Hildifons snorts.

“I would also like to know what brought you here,” the major adds, tilting her head, “And who this dwarf is.” There is steel behind her words, and Bilbo abruptly realizes that these hobbits are not like those in the Shire.

Not only are their faces different, but they will not be content to simple let Thorin and him continue on their merry way.

So he takes a deep breath and begins his tale.

***

In the evening he finds himself invited to dinner by his long-lost uncle. The sun is setting over the small village. Unlike in the Shire, the houses here are not set against hills, but stand free and at quite some distance to each other. They seem strange – their roofs slanted and tiled in green – though Hildifons explains that the true homes are underground.

The houses are used during daytime only.

And once they descend one of the hidden staircases, Bilbo finds himself surrounded by the comfortable air so typical for hobbit homes. Knicknacks line the shelves, though a bow and arrow sit next to the door.

“Did you never want to go back?” Bilbo asks tentatively.

Hildifons shrugs. “I thought about it. But there wasn’t much I missed, and without Gandalf the journey seemed all too daunting.”

Bilbo nods in understanding. The journey from Erebor was long (have they traveled for half a year by now?), the Shire is farther still.

“And you, you have done well for yourself, I’d say. A king, of all things?”

Bilbo laughs. “Gandalf had a hand in it.”

“Always Gandalf, isn’t it?” Hildifons shakes his head. “Though I doubt even he knows of this place. He disappeared on me, would you believe it? And there I was, stuck in that city on the river.”

“Gvinzaik?”

“Yes, that’s it. Anyway, I had no clue when he’d come back, when another fellow shows up. Looked a bit like Gandalf – far too tall, a little loony, and all done up in blue silks. Said he hailed from the other side of the mountains, but he could drop me off at the hobbit place.”

“So he knew of this place?”

“Obviously,” Hildifons replies, “Though he didn’t bring me all the way. Only close enough I could make it on my own.”

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. “So, where are you headed next? The kingdom in the mountain, I suppose?”

***

The next day, Thorin finally awakens. And though it feels like an eternity to Bilbo, by later afternoon the dwarf is mostly coherent. On the following day Thorin stays awake long enough for conversation.

“How are hobbits living here?” Thorin asks, letting his gaze slide over the cozy room before returning to Bilbo. He’s wearing the typical half-length trousers of his kind again – but somehow everything in this part of the world is different. “You said there were no hobbits in the east.”

Bilbo chuckles. “I was wrong. During the Wandering Days some hobbits must have gone east – you know, before this I wasn’t even certain the Wandering Days had actually happened. But the hobbits here – they have records.”

His eyes brighten, and Thorin feels his heart ease. He enjoys seeing Bilbo so happy – and in that case he can adjust to these unfamiliar surroundings.

Bilbo shakes his head. “It is amazing. Their set of knowledge is quite different from what we know in the Shire – but then some things are the same.”

“Do they also have seven meals a day?” Thorin asks.

“You won’t believe it,” Bilbo chirps, “They have nine.”

***

Two days later Thorin is well enough to leave the house for a short walk. Bilbo warns him he would draw some attention – still, they are both surprised at the unveiled stares they receive. Bilbo nods politely to those he recognizes, and Thorin makes sure to smile at the children. Who sometimes smile back and wave.

“They don’t seem quite so afraid,” Thorin comments as they continue at their glacial pace.

“They are a bit more familiar with dwarves,” Bilbo explains, “They trade a lot with the Blacklocks and even some other dwarf clans. Very rarely they allow the dwarves to come here and sell their wares.”

Thorin nods and glances around. The valley they are in is well-hidden by the tall trees surrounding it, but its greens are well-kept if not as given to riots of colorful flowers.

“Not men?” Thorin inquires, pausing to catch his breath. His wound still aches and itches when he moves – the scare tissue working to knit itself back together.

“No, not men,” Bilbo returns with a shake of his head. “From what I understand, they’ve had bad dealings with men, so now all their trade with men goes through the dwarves. They’d rather not have anybody know where they live.”

“Makes sense,” Thorin grumbles. Turns his head to work out a number of crinks in his neck and releases a sigh of relief when those give with a loud crack. Bilbo grimaces, then smiles.

“They’ve also embargoed the elves,” he continues. Once he’d heard the tale, he’d known Thorin would love it. “Apparently, one or two centuries ago the Hobbits here had made certain men didn’t know where they lived, but continued to trade with the local Avari elves.”

“However, the elves ended up telling the men where the hobbits lived and after the settlement was razed, the surviving hobbits imposed an embargo – none of their produce was to be sold to elves. As their only remaining tradesmen, the dwarves apparently agreed quite happily.”

Thorin hums in agreement.

“And that in turn may have forced the remaining elves out of Gvinzaik,” Bilbo continues, a wistful note sneaking into his narration. He’d have liked to meet those strange elves – but he also understands the stance hobbits here have taken.

“The only foods they could purchase were those grown by men along the river,” Thorin concludes, “And that would have limited their diet dramatically.”

Bilbo nods. “From what I heard most elves moved to the countries south of the desert. Apparently they are hot and humid and full of quite crowded towns.”

Thorin catches the wonder in Bilbo’s voice and smiles tentatively. “You may still get to see them.”

***

In the following weeks, Thorin heals while Bilbo fends his way through the local community of hobbits. His kindred here may be even more distrusting of strangers than their brethren in Hobbiton – the children, however, are ever curious, and many listen to his tales of the Shire.

“I don’t know whether they or we have fared better,” the major they call him here – says to Bilbo late one evening, long after the sun has set. “Your kin, it would seem, lead the easier lives; farming in plain sight without fear of robbers or war. Yet your kin has also forgotten their past, their traditions.”

“They think of us as less hobbit-ish then them,” Hildifons explains to Bilbo after they have left the Thein’s home.

Bilbo looks up at the bright night sky hanging over the tall pine trees. “They might be right,” he says with a shrug. “Barely anybody back in the Shire teaches their kids Hobbitish and I know some are already switching to having six meals instead of seven. The Shire does get influenced by the fashions of men – it may take decades, but it happens.”

Hildifons nods. “I was wondering,” he says, “The communities in the Shire – have they been growing recently?”

“I haven’t been back to the Shire often, so I might be wrong,” Bilbo answers, before pausing to remember. Small crowds on market days, the Party Field crowded for weddings and birthday parties, the mischievous fauntlings lurking in the fields – he hadn’t felt change in the Shire. “I don’t think so. The last time I was in Hobbiton, I felt things hadn’t changed at all.”

“Down to the number of hobbits?”

“Down to that, yes.”

Hildifons snorts. “Well, we were wondering about that. This place – the number of hobbits that can live here is rather limited. A couple of years ago, there even has been a small exodus. Some said they wanted to go and see the Shire, but I guess they did not make it.”

Bilbo thinks of the long, hazardous journey, and while he unsurprised those hobbits failed, it saddens him all the same. “Folks in Hobbiton would have been rather surprised.”

“I imagine. But folks here were quite surprised when I showed up as well. They do remember the Wandering Days a bit better here than we did back in the Shire, but they never knew that other group of hobbits then actually found a place to settle. And, I think, they were glad to know they aren’t the only hobbits in this entire world.”

***

As Thorin regains strength and color, the time to carry on approaches. Bilbo now greets many hobbits here by name, and receives nods in return. The fauntlings often compel him to tell of his adventures, and all is well and peaceful.

But the Orocarni await. And after them, far, far away, there is a home Bilbo longs to see again. Erebor, of course, though a part of him now often thinks of the Shire.

“There is another way to the kingdom in the mountain,” Hildifons tells Bilbo and Thorin one afternoon, “It’s well – the one we use to trade with the dwarves.”

“It’s secret,” Thorin gathers.

Hildifons shrugs. “I need to check with the mayor whether you may use it.”

The mayor allows it. But not without asking them a number of difficult question, which ends with Thorin vowing by his ancestors to never betray his knowledge. The King under the Mountain also offers payment for their hospitality in form of a set of very pretty sapphires and a mithril chain.

“We don’t deal in gems,” the mayor replies, “Though I can see they may be worth a lot.”

Thorin inclines his head. “But the dwarves you trade with do. Bring those to them, they will pay you their due.”

So their gift is accepted, and quite to the disappointment of the children, Bilbo and Thorin leave the village one morning with Hildifons. He will lead them up toward the large plain and stretches between the mountains behind the village and the kingdom in the mountain.

Though the crossing they will have to make alone.

***

“You cross this plain, you get right to the entrance,” Hildifons says at the border of the most bizarre landscape Thorin has ever seen. It’s not a plain so much as a lake, and Bilbo next to him is equally skeptical.

“Plain?” he echoes his long-lost uncle, “This is a lake!”

A cold gust of wind brushes past them and stirs up the still water, momentarily distorting the eerily clear reflection of the sky above.

“Oh no, not at all,” Hildifons laughs, his wrinkled face brightening, “The water doesn’t even come up to your knee at the deepest places. It’s not dangerous at all.”

Thorin frowns, eyes the empty landscape – except for a few rocks, there is nothing. With the water settled, he cannot even tell where the land ends and where the sky begins. The horizon has vanished completely, and the sight is unsettling.

What if setting foot into the water will lead them far, far away into other realms? What if they are ferried away to never return? He cannot –

“You need to stick to your path,” Hildifons continues, “Men don’t like to cross this place as the air gives them trouble, and dwarves regularly lose their way. Most bandits are afraid and those that are not – there aren’t any decent hiding places on the plain, and it’s not as if there were any riches to be found. It’s far safer than the road.”

Bilbo swallows, nods, and Thorin finds himself agreeing. He can understand the logic – yet the place is so otherworldly, he feels daunted.

“If you get disoriented, wait for nightfall and follow the stars,” Hildifons say, “I suppose you both know your constellations?”

Thorin nods, as does Bilbo.

“Well, if you are fast, you can cross the plain in two days. Though do not worry if you take longer – the plain is not all that large, and if you carry enough supplies, you will emerge somewhere,” Hildifons advises.

“I suppose water will not be problem,” Bilbo mumbles.

Hildifons chuckles. “It will. Further ahead, the ground turns to salt, so the water is not drinkable. There is a spring back on the way if you want to refill.”

Thorin shakes his head. They have enough water for five days, and he knows he can last for at least three without. If the plain truly is small enough to be crossed in two days, they will make it.

“In that case,” Hildifons says and smiles, “I will take my leave now. Best of luck, and Bilbo – if you get back to the Shire, give my best wishes to those that still remember me.”

And with more words and well-wishes, Hildifons takes his leave. They watch him until he disappears around the rocky outcropping, and then they are on their own again.

Thorin and Bilbo look at each other. Then Bilbo takes a deep breath and steps forward.

The water barely stirs, does not even cover the hair on his foot – and yet it looks as if he stands in the middle of the sky. Sunrise turns the clouds above grey and purple and the water has adopted those colors and Thorin and Bilbo find themselves stepping into this fantastic landscape.

Though the ground is invisible, it feels solid and smooth under Thorin’s feet.

They make good time, both marveling at the silent, surreal landscape. The mountains behind them fall farther and farther away until at some point, everything has disappeared. No mountains, no grass, no rocks. Only them, and they seem to be walking within the sky itself.

A shiver runs down his spine.

And so they walk. Clouds rush by overhead and under their feet. Each step blurs the water and seems to shake up the sky, and soon they have lost the horizon. Before them there is nothing but blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. There is no ground, not any longer.

“This is bizarre,” Thorin says with a shake of his head. He’s taken to holding his compass openly to keep track of their heading. Bilbo thinks he could follow his nose and arrive – but then again, Thorin had gotten himself lost in the Shire.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo adds, chest now filled with admiration and wonder. This wide, empty landscape – he has never seen the like before. Had never imagined a place like this would exist.

“Weird,” Thorin disagrees with a shake of his head.

Bilbo laughs. “At least we won’t get attacked here.”

His voice seems to carry miles. In reverse, they would hear any approaching party long before they would see them. And between clouds and blue sky, there is simply no space to hide.

Thorin and Bilbo are both fairly surprised, when at the end of the day they find a small rock formation that will serve nicely for them to set up camp without having to sleep in the water. Dinner is a quiet affair as they watch the sun disappear into itself in a brilliant display of colors and light. A cool wind blows over the plain, and reminds them of their location. Despite the flat lands around them, they are fairly high up in the mountains.

Bilbo shivers, and leans closer to Thorin. “It may get cold tonight.”

“Indeed,” Thorin agrees, and wraps an arm around him.

***

“Thorin, Thorin,” Bilbo’s hand sits on Thorin’s shoulder and pushes, “Wake up.”

He comes to with a strangled groan, his body stiff and aching. At least the lack of urgency to Bilbo’s words assuages him; they are not under attack. But Thorin is tired, and though his bedding is not very comfortable, he was nicely asleep.

Bilbo turns to him with a wide, ensorcelled smile.

“Look,” he says and gestures at the nightly plain.

And what he sees takes his breath away. At some point during the night the clouds have vanished, leaving only the clear sky with its myriad of colorful stars. Those millions of lights of the eastern night sky are now mirrored in the water below their feet, in all shades and hues. It is a spectacle unlike which Thorin has ever seen before.

“Isn’t this marvelous?” Bilbo asks, unable to look away from the strange, beautiful sight, “It’s like flying among the stars – there is no horizon, no ground – only stars wherever you look.”

And they shine in their brightest colors. Thorin sees the constellations he has only read about, sees the colors the scholars have observed through their telescopes – there are greens and blues and purples and reds, and entire patches of the sky seem to glow with bright silvery light.

“It is beautiful indeed,” he says with a shiver that is only half-caused by the cold.

“Shall we walk?” Bilbo asks brightly, “Hildifons said to head southeast, and the stars do provide a more than decent map.”

Thorin straightens his back. His body would not mind more sleep – but they will have crossed the plain earlier and hopefully reach decent lodgings sooner if they continue now. Also, he is not certain he’ll go back to sleep this easily. The sight has shaken something with him – filled him with a sense of marvel he had no longer felt capable of.

“Alright,” he agrees and turns to fold up his blanket. Bilbo cheerfully mirrors his actions, though he shudders in the cool air and is quick to put on the thick fur coat and the matching hat he got from the nomads of their caravan. Thorin has to smile.

“You have changed quite a bit, Master Baggins,” he says as they leave their camp, “What would your neighbors say?”

Bilbo chuckles. “Oh, they’d be scandalized, but I doubt their imaginations stretch so far to even envision this. I don’t think most of them even heard of the Orocarni mountains.”

And now he is here, wearing a fur coat in the style of the Easterlings and walking among a sea of stars.

***

Shortly after noon on their second day on the Mirror-sea as they’ve begun to call it, Bilbo spies mountains on the horizon. First he thinks they may be an illusion, but soon the shapes grow clearer and sharpen and he realized they must be drawing near to the plain’s end.

“We’ll probably reach it by nightfall,” Thorin says when Bilbo tells him of his observation. “We’ve been making good time.”

Bilbo nods, though he probably can’t quite keep his expression straight. A part of him looks forward to seeing the Blacklock kingdom, meeting other dwarves. But another has fallen in love with this surreal place, its silence and solitude.

“Though it might not be a good idea to arrive after nightfall,” Thorin continues smoothly, “The gates could be locked, or bandits could watch out for tired travelers.”

A small smile plays around his lips as Bilbo tilts back his head to look up. “We should spend another day on this plain then?”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Thorin confirms. Because even though the nights here get cold, they have thick blankets and coat, food and water.

One more night among the stars.

And tomorrow they will see how the dwarves of the Orocarni live.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're on tumblr, you may have seen it - but Quel has done [two absolutely fantastic artworks that go along with this chapter](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/135794278157/some-quiet-moments-from-bilbo-and-thorins). Generally, check her wanderer AU tag. That's what inspired this (aaaand my own propensity to travel).


	4. The Kingdom of the Blacklock Clan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin finally reach the Blacklock kingdom. Entering it, however, turns out slightly more complicated than anticipated. And somebody recognizes them!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff. 
> 
> Well, dwarves discuss Erebor's fall and some bad memories are brought up. But in general, aside from some whimsicalness, this is all fluffy.

As morning dawns, Bilbo and Thorin take one last look at the mirror-sea behind them. White clouds sail overhead, their movement reflected in the water beneath their feet. A gust of cool wind follows, and Bilbo turns to smile at Thorin.

“I’m glad we got to see this,” Bilbo says. To think they could have remained in Erebor, stuck to their routines – it would not have been bad, but now that he is here, that he has seen so much, he wonders how there could have ever been another decision. Maybe he’s not a respectable hobbit anymore – but that notion was left behind a long time ago. Now he longs to see even more of the world.

“Well, then let’s find out what this dwarven kingdom looks like.”

Thorin turns to glance at his beloved, sees his eyes sparkle with cheerful excitement, and something in his own chest twinges with joy. That old sense of excitement – almost a childish emotion – that he thought lost so many decades ago stirs in him, and he finds himself smiling brightly in return. “Yes, let’s.”

It feels as if the world and its wonders are waiting for them.

So they leave the mirror-sea on a well-hidden trail that curves around large boulders, and slowly winds its way down. The sun rises and Thorin feels a fine layer of sweat build up on his skin – the clouds have vanished, the sky turned an utterly bright blue.

“It seems a different blue, does it not?” Bilbo asks from behind Thorin.

The former King glances up. “Yes. Or maybe we are the ones who changed.”

Bilbo laughs at that. “Probably. After all, how long has it been since you allowed your beard to grow out?”

Thorin reaches for his beard, the shadow of an old guilt rising – and then dispensing when Bilbo shakes his head. “It suits you. Unlike my hair, I’m afraid.” Bilbo tugs at his curls – they don’t quite reach his shoulders yet, but have certainly grown.

“It looks nice,” Thorin says. “Quite fitting for visiting a dwarven kingdom.”

So they make their way down until the path evens out. It keeps leading them through narrow passages and around sharp corners, until it finally clears up and delivers them upon a ledge high above the valleys. Thorin stops, gazes at the panorama. Below them lies the valley they left when the robbers chased them off the road; dark trees bend in the wind. To their right the peaks of the Orocarni rise sharply and their snow-covered slopes seem only an arm’s length away.

“We’re fairly high up,” Bilbo acknowledges as the wind plays with his sun-bleached curls.

Thorin hums. “Perhaps this is why men don’t like to use this path,” he contemplates, “They get sick at these altitudes.”

“Do they?”

“Yes,” Thorin confirms, looking for the path. He can’t quite see where it leads from here on, though it ought not to be too difficult to find.

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts his contemplations, “Do you think the entrance could be around here?”

“Here?”

“I mean at this altitude. Hildifons said there was a second entrance here, just for hobbits. And if men can’t access this altitude, this would seem a reasonable location.”

Thorin’s eyes widen. “Of course,” he agrees, and fondness and admiration surge in his chest. His clever, clever husband, he could –

With a shake of his head, Thorin tugs Bilbo close and presses a kiss into those glowing curls. “You’re brilliant,” he whispers, and watches as Bilbo blushes.

***

They find the entrance at noon. It sits at the altitude Bilbo suggested and the path leading there becomes quite visible once one knows to look for it. Thorin eventually spies the hidden runes etched into the rock face.

He and Bilbo exchange one more look.

“Do you know how to open it?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin studies the bare rock before him. “Pushing ought to suffice. Unless there is another hidden keyhole, but from what we heard, the dwarves here do not expect intruders from this entrance.”

“Do you think they will be friendly?” Bilbo asks, a note of nerves sneaking into his voice.

“I believe so,” Thorin replies, despite his own doubts. It’s been so long since they had ambassadors from the Blacklock kingdom visit Erebor; and so much has changed since. They are two unannounced strangers entering through a hidden entrance. Will they be simply thrown out again?

Bilbo shakes his head and chuckles. “You know, let’s just find out.”

And with that he steps around Thorin and pushes lightly against the rock. For a moment nothing happens; then a groan runs through the stone as hidden mechanics creak into action. A cloud of dust stirs, the rock starts to move, and Thorin’s heart skips a beat.

Thorin and Bilbo watch with baited breath as the door to the Blacklock kingdom slowly opens. What lies beyond? What will they find there?

Their first impression, however, is another wall with another – locked – door and two rather surprised guards standing before it. They ogle Thorin and Bilbo with comically widened eyes – before remembering their job and making a grab for their weapons.

Guard one succeeds at the first try, but his partner manages to topple his spear to the ground with a rather loud clatter. Thorin and Bilbo politely refrain from moving until he has managed to pick it up and righted himself.

“Who are you?” the first guard demands in accented Westron. “How did you find this entrance?” His eyes flit from Bilbo to Thorin and back, obviously trying to determine whether or not they pose a threat – and just how they got here.

“We come from the hobbit settlement,” Bilbo explains and raises his hands in a calming gesture. “They gave us directions to come here. Originally we hail from Erebor and the Shire respectively.”

The guards blink, still visibly unsure how to proceed. They are likely under orders not to admit strangers, Thorin realizes – and the fact that Erebor lies half a world away and the Shire is likely utterly unknown here makes them even more suspect.

“If it makes this easier,” he suggests, “fetch your superior. We mean no ill and can wait.”

The guards gesticulate wildly between themselves. To them the situation must be less than ideal – but Thorin quite demonstratively finds a rock to sit down upon. Bilbo follows him with a shrug.

“I guess now is as good a time as any for a pipe.”

***

“This is highly irregular,” says the dwarf who reminds Bilbo eerily of Dori. The hairdo is certainly different, but no less complicated. “And I’m not quite certain I am actually able to correctly handle this.” His cheeks have gained a red flush, while Bilbo and Thorin do their best to stand still.

The pipe helped much, Thorin admits to himself. Though he initially found the spicy pipe weed of the nomads unusual, he’s grown used to it. And now he can smell the afterimage of the scent emanating from Bilbo, and this is much nicer to focus on than the upset dwarf ranting at them.

Bilbo, however, still smiles patiently. “We do not mean to cause anybody any trouble,” he assures. “We have means to finance our stay, and to pay for any tolls or other fees.”

The dwarf huffs. “I do not think –“

“Please,” Bilbo interrupts. “If necessary, fetch whoever you believe is qualified to handle this situation.”

The dwarf straightens, and Thorin glances down to see a familiar gleam in Bilbo’s eye. “We are but ordinary travelers looking to see the wonders of this famed kingdom.”

Thorin tilts his head aside to hide his grin. Of course, Bilbo managed to charm a dragon. This poor dwarf does not stand a chance.

“Very well,” the flustered dwarf agrees. “I’ll bring you to the supervisor of the gate guards.”

Who won’t know what to do, Thorin wants to protest immediately. They need somebody higher up in the hierarchy – somebody who actually remembers to ask them questions instead of simply stammer, wonder, and wait. But Bilbo elbows him gently just as the dwarf before them turns to speak to the two guards.

“We’re getting in.” Bilbo whispers to him with a small smirk.

And Thorin realizes – it truly won’t matter if they get kicked out again. Once they’ve seen the kingdom from the inside, they will have accomplished what they came for. So instead of rolling his eyes at the inane conversation in strangely lilting Khuzdul he overhears between the guards and the clerk, he calmly follows them into the mountain.

The iron door opens to reveal a small platform lit by red lanterns. Bilbo steps through first, makes an astonished noise and his steps falter. Thorin follows and as his eyes adjust to the dark, he cannot help and stop in amazement.

Thousands of lights glitter before them: some above them, some below them, some only small dots in the dark, others bright enough to reveal stone walls with windows cut into them, dizzying staircases or houses clinging to rocky pinnacles. From the platform a walkway extends straight ahead over a deep and dark abyss and disappears into the glittering panorama. Where Erebor is a marvel of dwarven architecture, the Blackblocks have carved their houses directly into the stone. Small bridges span the abysses between them.

And no matter how far Bilbo looks – he cannot see a ground or a ceiling. Always there are other rooves, other lights and more small bridges. He feels a smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

“This is amazing,” Bilbo utters, breathlessly. “Did you know it would be like this?”

Thorin manages to gather himself, but only barely. “I had heard that this was a wonderous place.” But he did not expect this.

Bilbo chuckles and manages to tear his eyes away from the stunning scenery to look at Thorin. “Did no one think to send a drawing perhaps?”

“Perhaps a long time ago, but I never saw it.” Thorin’s face softens as he catches Bilbo’s eyes. “But now you can make one for the library.”

Bilbo smiles at the suggestion, though at this point their time to marvel is up.

“Please come along,” the leader of their small escort reminds them, looking rather unhappy. Probably worried if he should have admitted these two mysterious strangers at all.

“Of course, of course.” Bilbo chuckles.

On their way deeper into the mountain they pass very few dwarves. Their clothes, Bilbo notices, look rather different from the light linens that the folks in Gvinzaik preferred. Some here wear tough leathers, but many have shawls spun of colorful silks wrapped around their necks. They tend to take a closer look at Thorin and Bilbo, though none are so overt as to stare.

It seems that despite the secrecy, visitors perhaps are not that rare.

And yet, all the dwarves they speak to seem utterly taken aback at their presence. Like Thorin predicted, the guard supervisor only shrugs and sends a runner to fetch his supervisor. Who cannot be found, but their supervisor in turn said it wasn’t their division anyway. So Thorin and Bilbo get shuffled to two clerks from the trade department, who merely shake their heads.

“We deal with products leaving and entering the mountain. Not people.”

Bilbo’s stomach announces that noon has passed at one point. Thorin turns to him as they are waiting to see yet another clerk. “We could always just leave?”

“I fear that would cause just as much trouble.”

Their current guard holds himself stiffly and has refused all attempts at conversation. Thorin is quite certain he’s just as out of his depth as everyone else has been so far, and he doubts the clerk they are waiting for (taxes, if the Khuzdul runes here aren’t completely different from the ones Thorin knows) can help them.

Well, at least they have a chance to sit down and get food from their packs in the meantime.

They end up waiting most of the afternoon for a clerk that never arrives, until their guard with badly hidden embarrassment decides to bring them elsewhere. The first person there just shakes their head again.

“Housing! We’re housing! Unless they wanna move here, I don’t know how we can help them.”

Thorin wonders if now is the time to dig out the royal insignia hidden somewhere on his person that proclaims him Thorin Oakenshield. Far from Erebor they may be, but the line of Durin is known among all dwarves. And the statues they passed pay homage to the same dwarves as those in Erebor do.

When they’re moving again, Bilbo clears his throat. “If I may make a suggestion,” he offers tentatively.

Their guide sighs. “Yes?”

“Back where I am from,” Bilbo says lightly, “we rarely received visitors either. So usually either the person with the highest rank or the person in charge of overseeing relations with neighboring communities took care of that.”

“We can’t bother the Queen!” the dwarf bursts out.

“Certainly not,” Thorin interrupts, “But whoever handles your contact with Gvinzaik and the hobbits.”

“The – how do you know? That is supposed to be secret!”

“Our previous handlers here apparently failed to tell you – we came from there,” Bilbo says flatly. “Incidentally, I’m a hobbit, so they had no problem welcoming us.”

“But they – they don’t like strangers! They speak that utterly strange tongue! How can you –“

“Hobbit.” Bilbo brushes back his curls to reveal his pointed ears. “But back to the issue – who handles those contacts?”

“Lord Mani – but he’s, we can’t –“

“From my understanding of these matters he might be rather cross to find he was not informed of having foreign visitors in the mountain,” Thorin interrupts. “Or you may just fetch your captain of the guard. He will likely be interested, too.”

“Actually, Iliao, that may be a good idea,” another dwarf interrupts, and for the first time Bilbo and Thorin have the name of their companion. (Thorin has not missed that they all failed to give their names, and he doubts Bilbo did either.)

“Lord Baomu, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you – “ Iliao stammers, though Baomu’s attention has long since turned to Thorin and Bilbo. A knowing gleam lights within them, and he grins.

“You may want to inform the Queen, too,” Baomu adds. “After all, these are rather important visitors. Welcome to the Kingdom of my kin, Thorin, son of Thrain, and Master Baggins of the Shire.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest.

“Wha –“

Thorin is torn between preening and burying his head in his hands.

Baomu tilts his head. “They are traveling incognito. You must have seen the beautiful tapestries Erebor sent. Or at least heard the news?” He turns away from Iliao to Thorin and Bilbo. “I suppose you did not enter through the proper entrance hall. There is a rather large carving depicting the quest for Erebor.”

The dwarf and the hobbit stare at him, caught between exasperation and surprise.

“We …” Bilbo manages, “did not come that way.”

Baomu nods with obvious satisfaction and gives Iliao’s shoulder a gentle shove. “Get them.” To Thorin and Bilbo he turns with a rather wide smile.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he tells them, “But I suppose –“

“We don’t mind,” Bilbo interrupts. “We are traveling incognito after all.”

***

Thus, on very short notice, Bilbo and Thorin find themselves invited to dine with the Queen and her household. It’s, Bilbo thinks as he takes his seat in the richly furnished dining hall, not the most fortunate development. Neither he nor Thorin are carrying clothes for the occasion (not to mention their hair) – while the Queen appears in beautifully patterned silk robes that match the color scheme of the entire room.

Conversation initially is stiff. Neither party is exactly sure what the protocol warrants or what possible taboo topics are. Only when one of the Queen’s daughters works up the courage to politely inquire after quest for Erebor, Thorin begins to melt.

“The dragon had one weakness – a spot over his heart where he was missing a scale,” he begins the tale. “We thought it was a rumor, but our very courageous hobbit went and found the truth.” Thorin nods to Bilbo here, and the younger ones gasp. Even the Queen leans forward, thoughtfully stroking her beard.

“You faced a dragon?” the youngest daughter inquires of Bilbo.

The hobbit chuckles. “We all did. It was big and rather scary..”

“How did you kill it?”

And so the tale is told. At one point one of the attending ladies offers to interrupt – because the tale is known, and aren’t Bilbo and Thorin tired of repeating it? But it’s been months since they left Erebor, and now the tale seems to stem from another time.

Even though that time holds a number of unpleasant memories, Bilbo also finds himself laughing when he recalls Thorin’s first entrance in Bag End. Their unfortunate encounter with the trolls and the incident with Rivendell’s fountain.

When he’d left his home then he’d never imagined where the road could take him. Now he is here, dining with royalty on the other side of the world.

“I want to go and travel, too!” One of the elder princesses declares mid-way through the tale. “I want to see the Misty Mountains! And all those places beyond!”

“It does sound like a rather fascinating part of the world,” the Queen agrees. “But I believe it’s a rather difficult and strenuous journey there.”

“It is also quite a bit dangerous,” Bilbo adds.

“But I want to travel!” the princess protests.

“Well, you could always go to Ia,” the Queen replies. “And once you’re older you can still go and visit the West.”

“Yes!” the princess cheerfully agrees, and then happily turns back to her food.

Thorin, who noticed Bilbo straightening, is not surprised when his beloved asks. “The roads to Ia are not as dangerous then?”

The Queen smiles at him. “They are considered quite a bit safer than those going to Gvinzaik – many traders come that way every day.”

“Ia is a nice place,” the oldest princess agrees. “I like going to the sea. Or visiting the tailors of Twong Ki Gwan – they have amazing silks.”

“Traders from Ia mainly sell fabrics and spices to us,” the Queen explains. “Perhaps you could visit the markets tomorrow?”

Bilbo’s eyes sparkle. “We certainly will.”

Thorin nods with a chuckle. Who knows, he thinks to himself, maybe they will make it to Ia. He’s seen the western shores of the land – but no one he knows has seen those in the east. These places that even the mapmakers of Erebor seem to have only guessed at.

Something tingles in his fingers.

He wouldn’t mind seeing those.

***

Crammed into the vertical space between five rock needles, Bilbo and Thorin find the spice market. The space is so small, Thorin had not expected it to be there – but Bilbo’s nose had led them to their destination without fail. Now they are marveling once more at the architectural feat: no inch of space seems unused.

Ladders, staircases and walkways crisscross the space. Food stalls dangle from the rock above by strong ropes or just out from the rock face of the needles. Windows hewn into the stone provide golden light and glimpses of busy food places within. Music and chatter drift out, followed by sharp spices, and Thorin catches Bilbo attempting to hum the foreign tune.

They’ve been able to exchange some gold into local currency and after having spent all of yesterday being guided through the kingdom by an official guide (who apparently thought beginning the tour with showcasing a carved rendition of the quest for Erebor was a good idea. Thorin still cringes at the memory, though Bilbo had elbowed him and commented that he “looked quite impressive” while grinning from ear to ear) they now have decided to explore on their own.

The tiny walkways still make Bilbo gulp and clutch Thorin’s arm a bit harder than necessary. Yet the architecture is breathtaking with its swaying walkways, spiraling staircases and blinking lights.

Bilbo immediately embraces the spice market. While he is fascinated with the multitude of unfamiliar spices and dishes, the vendors are equally fascinated by their unusual customer. So Thorin chuckles as Bilbo tests his way through different dishes and combinations – and finds he has to beg out quite early.

“This is rather spicy,” Thorin announces as he tries not to empty his water jug in one large gulp. But he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks already, and the vendor smiles knowingly at him. Bilbo, however, merely raises an eyebrow.

“It’s nice, though,” he comments and then turns back to the vendor. “Could I have some more? I like this.”

Thorin’s stomach grumbles and warns him to refrain from joining his husband on more culinary adventures. So he sits next to Bilbo and amuses himself by watching the hobbit clear plate after plate – until at some point somebody sets down a plate before him again.

Thorin looks up in surprise. The scent that catches his nose is familiar – and the dwarf that smiles at him inclines his head in a bow.

“Your majesty,” he greets. “Perhaps you would like to try a traditional venison stew?”

Thorin blinks, glances down again. Even the bowl bears a decorative pattern that is more typical of Erebor than of any other dwarven realm – and the stew is considered a traditional meal of the kingdom.

“My parents came from Erebor,” the dwarf continues. “They fled when the dragon came – but they told me much about the kingdom. And they taught me all they knew.”

“Did they work in the kitchens?” Bilbo inquires softly.

The dwarf tilts his head. “They did run their own food parlor in the lower markets.”

“Near the gate?” Thorin asks, recalling blurry and distant memories. “I remember there was one place – it used to be a stall, but grew quite popular, so they turned it into a parlor. My sister really enjoyed going there.”

The dwarf blinks in surprise. “I’m not entirely certain, but it could be. I’ve only been born after they came here, you see.”

Bilbo cheerfully sets down his bowl. “Maybe we could go and meet with your parents? And see if those tales match?”

“Sadly, my parents have already moved on,” the dwarf replies. “But there are some others from Erebor living here.”

Thorin’s heart twinges. Others –

“Do you think they would be up for a meeting? To wallow in memories for a bit?” Bilbo suggests with a chuckle.

“I think they’d love to. There was quite a bit excitement when the rumor came that your majesty was visiting. I think most of them still don’t believe if.”

To think that after so long, after all those decades, after all the pain and tears, there were others who survived. That more made it from Erebor than those ill-fated dwarves Thrain lead to Moria. That more survived then the ragtag group Thorin led to the Blue Mountains.

That some of the dwarves of Erebor turned east and found a new home here.

***

Thorin tugs his coat into place for the seventh time. Bilbo turns and reaches up to catch Thorin’s hand before it can start an eighth time.

“You look fine,” he assures. “Everything is fine.”

Thorin takes a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, Bilbo, but I can’t help but think. What if – how many died during the journey? Could I not have done anything? Should I not have tried to get in contact? What if –“

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts softly. “These things lie decades in the past. And I know they are important to you – so instead of worrying over these questions, why don’t you ask them?”

“But what if –“

Bilbo shakes his head. “I doubt anybody here will blame you for what happened before you even came of age. All we can do tonight is to listen to their stories. And maybe try to enjoy this unexpected reunion.”

Thorin gathers himself and nods. Unexpected as this is, he can do this. He has ruled Erebor, faced Smaug, and lived through exile. With this thought in mind he follows Bilbo out of their chambers and through the mountain.

The room they have asked to occupy for tonight’s reunion is not far. Still, dressed in finer clothes, Bilbo and Thorin command attention when they make their way there and the whispers follow them.

When they arrive they fine the room is already crowded by far more dwarves than Thorin expected. Several elderly dwarves sit in a corner and smoke, while two others are busy entertaining a gaggle of children. They can’t all have come from Erebor, Thorin thinks, thunderstruck. Many of them are far too young.

“Your majesties,” the erstwhile cook from the day before greets them with a small bow. “I hope you don’t mind – many of us wanted to bring our families.”

Another dwarf shyly steps into place next to him. “Not all of us hail from Erebor. But as my spouse does, I was curious. I will leave if –“

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Bilbo interrupts while Thorin marvels at the many faces. So many, he thinks again and again, so many are here. So many survived. “Everybody is welcome, we’ll just have to come a bit closer. Also, there is no need for titles. Thorin has abdicated and now we are merely travelers.”

A hush runs through the room.

“Travelers? Where are you…”

“But why?”

“Is it true that the elves betrayed us?” somebody shouts.

Bilbo cringes and looks to Thorin. Who purses his lips. “Thranduil did indeed not offer any help. Looking back, I understand his unwillingness to move against Smaug. That, however, he provided no help for the refugees remains unforgiveable.”

“Did ye give him a good whopping on that other battle, eh?” Some other elderly dwarf demands.

“Not exactly…” Bilbo hedges. “Maybe we should start from the beginning?”.

“Yes please!” a white-haired dwarf lady exclaims. “We barely heard anything but rumors after the dragon came!”

And so the story is told. Thorin starts from the day Smaug came – a distant memory now – going over the battle before Moria’s gates and Bilbo watches their audience grow paler and paler. Only when Thorin mentions settling in Ered Luin, quite a few sigh with relief.

“I thought you folks would go to the Iron Hills,” one dwarf says, “What with them being so closely related to you.” And Thorin realizes that the dwarf is speaking of Thorin’s family.

“Thror … would not settle for not having a kingdom of his own,” he says, hesitantly. His grandfather’s madness he rarely revisits nowadays. “And once we were at Moria the Iron Hills were too far away.”

“And I thought we had it bad…” somebody mumbles.

Thorin holds his tongue then. But once he has finished his tale and answered all questions, he turns to them. “But tell me- how did all of you come here?”

“Actually, through quite some different paths,” one dwarf states. “Obviously, most of us bonded together in small groups. And I think most of us wanted to make for the Iron Hills once we realized we had ended up east of Erebor.”

“However, some of us don’t have the greatest sense of orientation,” another dwarf inserts sharply. “We’ll be there in a day, he kept telling us. Next thing we know, there are mountains. Only those are not the Iron Hills, but golly red, and we’ve walked all the way to the Orocarni.”

Bilbo snorts. “That does sound familiar.”

“I’m not quite so bad,” Thorin responds before he can think better of it.

“No, you only got lost in the Shire. Twice,” Bilbo replies and then turns to their audience. “The Shire – Hobbiton in particular – is perhaps a quarter of this mountain.” And at this the other dwarves begin to laugh as well.

“There may very well be some Ereborean dwarves down in Khand,” a dwarf comments. “Crossing the desert is not exactly easy, but we dwarves are hardy folks after all.”

“I think it’s being over ground,” one of the younger dwarf comments. “Quite a number of us get lost when going to Ia. It seems so simple and then it isn’t…”

“Better than the elves there,” somebody chimes in. “They see the sea and are all ‘ooh, the gulls are calling me away’- and then they realize the shore they mean is on the other side of the world.”

“Elves get lost?” Bilbo asks.

“Perhaps not get lost as much as they fail to realize the world changes as time passes. Gvinzaik quite routinely gets visitors looking for some city up to the north that, I think, existed in the first age?”

“Oh my,” Bilbo mutters, chuckling. “That must cause a lot of confusion.”

“You could always ask them the next time,” Thorin suggests quietly. Bilbo’s eyes light up. “You know,” he replies with a grin. “I think I just might.”

After that the tales turn back to the dwarves. How they made their way through the desert and toward the east and found new homes here. Few have settled in the towns of men – mostly for trade – since the Blacklock kingdom had been quite welcoming to the refugees.

“So while I think I’d like to see Erebor again,” one of the elderly dwarf says. “I doubt I’d be able to make the journey again. Maybe some of the young ones would like to go.”

“They will all be warmly welcome,” Thorin returns. “All of them.”

***

Roughly ten days after they first came into the Blacklock kingdom they receive a message with breakfast. Bilbo unfolds the parchment while munching on a sweet roll and Thorin watches a wide smile spread over his face.

“A caravan of fabric traders from Ia arrived yesterday,” Bilbo explains. “They suggest we visit the fabric market today.”

And so they find themselves on the large platform that serves as the fabric market only a few hours later. It’s crowded and busy and at first they only catch short glimpses of rich and decadently colorful fabrics. Until one stall in particular catches Bilbo’s eye and with a skill apparently unique to hobbits he easily navigates a straight way through the crowds.

Thorin, when he sees the fabrics, has to admit he has rarely seen anything this exquisite.

“Those are summer silks,” the vendor explains in shaky Khuzdul while Bilbo’s fingers ghost over the dark blue fabric. “They stay wonderfully cool even in the greatest heat.”

Thorin translates and Bilbo curiously inquires: “Does it get very hot in Ia in the summer?”

After having the translation the vendor tilts his head. “Ia is a large country. The north and the mountains never get quite as hot – but the south and the coast does.”

Bilbo twists the fabric between his fingers. “You know,” he tells Thorin. “Back in Hobbiton there used to be rumors of beautiful fabrics – bright colors, wonderful patterns, nicely cool and comfortable against the skin. We used to get excited when a trader managed to bring up fabrics from Gondor, but I don’t think we ever realized just how beautiful silks there could be.”

Thorin who, while certainly not an expert in fabrics, has to admit he is impressed by the colors, too, shrugs. “Should we buy some?”

Bilbo frowns. “We’d need to carry it. It’s not practical.”

“Or we could get clothes cut from it,” Thorin replies. And then allows himself a smile. “It would probably be practical if we want to continue on to Ia. I believe it should be spring now.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “Continue?” he echoes. His hand drops the fabric, and Thorin is happy to ignore the crowds surrounding them for the moment.

“We’ve come this far,” he replies. “Why don’t we travel the last bit of the way, too?”

“I was thinking …” Bilbo cuts himself off with a shake of his head. When he looks at Thorin again, his eyes gleam. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go.”

“Let’s go and see the end of our world,” Thorin suggests, heart singing and tears welling up in his eyes. “Let’s go and see the eastern shores.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees, laughing and wiping at his eyes. “Yes.”

With a sharp nod, Thorin turns back to the vendor who has been watching them in growing concern and confusion. “Alright. We need a coat from this fabric. Any pattern you would suggest?”

***

They return to their chambers late that night with orders for quite some sets of new clothes issued. Bilbo’s mind still reels from Thorin’s suggestion and he doubts he’ll sleep tonight despite his aching feet.

So the moment the door falls shut behind them Bilbo grasps Thorin by his coat labels and draws him down. He presses his lips softly against Thorin’s. For a moment they stay in the kiss – gentle and without hurry – before Bilbo leans back.

“Can we afford to continue our trip?” he inquires. There are still some ounces of mithril and precious stones hidden in his pack, though he wonders how much of Thorin’s they already spent. “We should keep enough for the journey home.”

Thorin chuckles. “While today was probably the most expensive day of our adventure so far – I paid three ounces of mithril for our clothes.”

“Oh.” Bilbo thinks he has probably thirty ounces on him, still.

“Mithril is not found in these mountains,” Thorin explains. “Nor anywhere east of here, it seems. It will last us to Ia and back.”

The idea of traveling through Ia feels yet exciting and daunting. Bilbo leans against Thorin’s chest and begins to hum.

“Roads go ever on and on…”

***

As they are busy with their preparations, another surprising development occurs. Together with breakfast arrives another parchment – this one, however, bears a very familiar seal.

“Erebor,” Bilbo says, blinking, his breakfast forgotten.

The seal has been broken and Thorin reaches for the accompanying note.

“This missive arrived for her majesty last night. We believe you may want to answer personally. Please send any reply back to us.”

Thorin sets aside the note and reaches for the letter. It stems indeed from Erebor, and has bears the royal seal and Fili’s personal signature.

“What does it say?” Bilbo inquires.

Thorin grimaces. “They wanted to know if they heard any rumors about a hobbit and a dwarf in the area. Bilbo, when did we last send a message to Erebor?”

“That was … no, we didn’t send anything from Gvinzaik, did we? The caravan going back would have taken too long, or something, was it not?” Bilbo summarizes.

“So the last time they heard from us was when we left from Rhûn?”

Bilbo purses his lips. “Yes,” he says, “I think it may be. Oh dear, they must be terribly worried.”

“If they’re sending messages to here asking for rumors, I believe they are,” Thorin glumly states. Bilbo’s frown deepens.

“Should we maybe head back? We’ve been on the road for quite some time now.”

Thorin sighs. He knows that Bilbo wants to see the sea and so does he. But they have, in following their personal desires, allowed their friends to greatly worry and that is not something Thorin feels proud of. Perhaps it is time –

“I wish there was a quicker way of communication,” Bilbo sighs.

Thorin looks at him – studies his beloved. They have both grown a little slimmer during their travels, but the lines around Bilbo’s eyes now have been caused by laughing, and the sun has bleached his hair and darkened his cheeks, and it’s a good look on him.

“We’ll write them at once,” Thorin decides. “Pay extra to make certain the message gets delivered quickly.”

It will still take time. And it’s not as if they could make the journey back overnight, either.

“Meanwhile, we’ll continue east.”

Bilbo looks up. “Continue east?”

Thorin nods. “Yes. We won’t make the journey back that quickly. And I believe once our friends have word from us, they’ll be reassured. We just need to make sure we write regularly.”

“Alright,” Bilbo says and a smile blossoms on his face. “Alright, let’s do it this way.”

***

After that time flies.

They send out copies of their message just to make sure. Then they have to pick up their clothes, confer with the map makers of the Blacklocks, and finally they meet with the dwarf leading the trading caravan from the kingdom to Twong Ki Gwan.

Ondor regularly leads the caravans and is rather cheerful about taking two visitors along. It’s a nice time to travel, he tells them.

And on the evening before they are due to leave, Bilbo lies in Thorin’s arms and says that he’s looking forward to seeing the sun again. It should be spring outside – and if this part of the world is not too different, this means rising temperatures and blooming flowers.

**

The Eastern Gate of the Blacklock Kingdom opens to reveal a breathtaking, well-kept road winding down into the wilderness of the Orocarni mountains. It emerges into a deep valley facing east, already lit by the warm rising sun. A clear river runs along the road, shaded by green trees and birds flitter between them.

Bilbo turns to cast a beaming smile to Thorin, who smiles back. Then the leader of their escort signals them to get moving. The goats and ponies slowly start into action, pulling along huge carts filled with ironwork, jewelry and all sorts of products.

“How long will we be traveling through the mountains?” Bilbo inquires, urging his goat to catch up with Ondor’s, and Thorin follows swiftly. He’s become an accomplished rider, Thorin thinks as he watches Bilbo effortlessly direct his goat where he wants it to go.

“Three days, all along the stream,” Ondor replies. “It’s easy going.”

Bilbo nods. “The road is in very good condition – are there going to come more difficult stretches later that we need the goats for?”

Ondor laughs. “No, no. We could walk all the way if it pleased you, but you’ll be needing five days in that case.”

“And carry all our provisions, I see,” Bilbo adds and shudders dramatically, “No, I think I’ll opt for some comfort this time around.”

Thorin chuckles to himself.

“Is goat-riding not popular with hobbits?” Ondor inquires in turn, “Or what animals do you ride when you travel?”

“We prefer to walk,” Bilbo proclaims, “Though if we must, we ride ponies. We’ve also ridden camels when crossing the desert, and once you get used to the swaying they are actually quite nice.”

“Camels?” Ondor echoes. “I’ve only seen them down on the markets. How extraordinary! Aren’t they very tall?”

“Quite so. But the nomads have nice saddles. The height is daunting, certainly, however, you do sit comfortably.”

The air is pleasantly warm this deep in the valley, and by noon they have all stripped off their coats. They break for lunch at a point where the valley widens and a colorful field opens up between the road and the river. Bilbo studies the flowers with rapt fascination – few he recognizes, some he thinks must be related to those at home and others are entirely new and strange.

And while he has never been a flower collector, he still remembers how to press them. So he plucks five, making sure not damage them, and shoves them into the pages of his journal before returning it into his pack.

***

They start their trek early the next morning. The sun is barely peaking over the snow-capped mountains that frame the valley, though the birds accompany them with loud chirping. Bilbo yawns as he urges his goat forward and Thorin holds out another breakfast bun for him without comment.

The valley is pleasantly cool and the caravan makes good time. They meet another group of traders on their way to the Blacklock kingdom just before midday and the exchange of news occurs in a language Thorin has never heard before.

“What do the people of Ia speak?” Bilbo inquires of Ondor.

The dwarf hums. “Some of the traders know a little Khuzdul or Westron. But those are rare – most speak either the dialect of the capital or their regional dialects.”

“Are those very different from each other?”

“Quite.”

“Can you teach me the one spoken in … Twong Qi Ghan?” Bilbo struggles to pronounce the name.

Ondor purses his lips. “I don’t really speak it all that well,” he says. “It’s quite difficult.”

Bilbo shrugs. “I think we have some time?”

And Ondor laughs at that.

***

Late in the afternoon they reach a small settlement. The valley has widened to allow farming next to the river. A guesthouse sits right next to the road, built on stilts that keep it over the river. And high above, clinging to the sheer rock with its roofs glittering bright red and gold in the light of the setting sun, sits another group of buildings.

“The farming community,” Ondor explains. “In theory this land belongs to the Blacklocks still, but as we dwarves are not the best farmers we lend it out.”

Bilbo stares at the unfamiliar buildings with wide eyes.

“The architecture looks a bit like the one in the mountain,” Thorin comments as he studies the steep staircases hewn into the stone.

Ondor nods. “Yes. The river floods quite often, and while rebuilding the guesthouse isn’t too bad, the farmers would rather keep their homes intact.”

Bilbo eyes the height and shudders.

“Well, it’s a stunning location,” he allows.

“But you’d rather spend the night on the ground?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo nods. “Yes.”

As they’ve reached their destination early, this night the caravan stays up late. The farmers come down from their houses on the mountain and bring food – it’s probably sold at quite a hefty price, though Thorin hardly cares. The mead they provide is refreshing and soon Bilbo’s cheeks are pink. He’s also attempting to use all the words he learned from Ondor in conversation – though from the bemused expression of the farmer little of what he says actually makes sense.

“No, Master Hobbit, no,” Ondor interrupts laughing at one point. “Or do you honestly want to trade your husband?”

Thorin twitches, and one of the farmers (Thorin isn’t certain whether male or female) calls something over.

“A generous offer, milady,” Ondor shouts back.

“He’s not for sale!” Bilbo insists, rises to his feet, and staggers over to Thorin. Where he wraps a possessive arm around Thorin’s waist. “Not for sale.” He echoes among loud laughter.

Later that night, when they lie on the beds in their cramped room, Bilbo lies on his back. “Though, you know, it’s good to know you’d fetch such a high price here,” he contemplates. “I do wonder how much a hobbit brings, though…”

“Bilbo, sleep,” Thorin groans. They have to be up early tomorrow and he knows he’ll need sleep. Unlike Bilbo who can drink the night away and still be up and cheerful early on the next morning.

“I wonder what determines the price,” Bilbo continues. “If they’re looking for strength, you’d think they’d prefer men. Then again, Dwalin would probably be stronger than most men, and in that case he’d fetch the most money. Or do they like the meaty parts?”

“Bilbo…”

“I mean, we’re fairly far from home. They might have completely other notions of what is important in a husband. Does the word husband even mean the same thing here that it does back home? What if they –“

“Bilbo, please.”

“Or what if –“

“Really, Bilbo,” Thorin rolls them over so he hovers over Bilbo. “Unless you want me to try and trade my chatty hobbit husband tomorrow. Maybe they’d like that.”

Bilbo blinks sluggishly before a toothy grin comes over his face. “Let me convince you of the opposite, then.”

***

Needless to say, once the next morning comes Thorin is not well-rested, but quite cheerful nonetheless. The mountains around them seem smaller now, and he recalls Ondor saying that today they’ll leave them behind. Their pace has slowed a bit, since the wagons need time to navigate the narrow bends that lead them down to the plains below.

Shortly after noon the road descends into a valley of bright pink trees. Thorin can make out the nearly black trunks and branches of the trees closest to them, though in the distance all vanished into a sea of pink and white.

“Are those cherry trees?” Bilbo asks of Ondor.

The dwarf hums. “That’s what they’re called, though the cherries they carry are poisonous. Do they grow in your Shire as well?”

Bilbo studies the trees below. “Not quite these, I think. Our cherries are edible, and they bloom white.”

“Edible cherries,” Ondor comments with a raised eyebrow, “Now that is something you won’t find in these parts.”

Their goats continue their steady movement forward, and before long they follow the road underneath the trees. Sunlight filters through the pink petals for the first few meters, before the foliage overhead becomes thick and they are left with a strange, pinkish light to everything.

As the path narrows, Ondor takes the lead and Bilbo brings his goat close to Thorin’s. Their legs almost brush against each other, and Bilbo reaches out for Thorin’s hand. “This is quite amazing,” he comments quietly, as if not to disturb the bird songs around them.

Even their goats’ hoofs are silenced by a thickening carpet of petals on the ground. Thorin shifts, taking Bilbo’s hand in turn and holding on perhaps a bit more tightly than required.

Bilbo draws his eyes from the surreal scenery surrounding them. “Don’t you like it?”

“It feels… strange,” Thorin says, unable to pinpoint his own emotions. This forest is not strange in the way Mirkwood felt strange – he cannot sense any sort of threat or oppressiveness here. It is more like the all-encompassing sea of petals disorients him.

“Hmmm,” Bilbo frowns. “I admit it’s not an everyday sight, but back in Hobbiton people loved to build flower tunnels for festivals. They felt something like this.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced something like this,” Thorin admits.

Bilbo smiles. “One year they actually managed to build a small maze from the flower tunnels. It was far too popular and too small for somebody to get seriously lost in there, but it was very nice. Felt like stepping into another world.”

Thorin nods and Bilbo looks at him. “Quite a bit like where we are going, no? One more new world to discover.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any questions - I have a [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	5. At the End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo reach the country of Ia and the trading port. Now all that lies to east is the sea and the islands and legendary lands beyond and they have to decide if they will carry on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Tooth-rotting fluff.   
> Really. Maybe a hint of wistfulness. But the most dramatic things here are mosquito bites and sunburns. :3

Their caravan travels along widening roads for several weeks and temperatures rise while their surroundings grow more lush and verdant. They frequently happen on settlements and towns and rarely have to sleep on the roadside anymore. And even though the weather is warm enough to spend the nights outside, the multitudes of mosquitos make Bilbo and Thorin thankful for indoor accommodation.

“How didn’t you notice that one?” Bilbo asks one night as he applies a cold wrap to the swelling over Thorin’s eyebrow. 

Thorin tugs wearily at his hair. “I thought it was my own hair.”

“Then put it up,” Bilbo suggests. “It’s too hot to wear that hair open anyway.” He threads a hand into Thorin’s thick locks, and brushes his hand over the warm skin on the back of Thorin’s neck. 

“Then the mosquitos have even more skin to attack,” Thorin groans. 

Bilbo laughs and leans forward to press a kiss to Thorin’s lips. Thorin closes his eyes, presses back - and then abruptly withdraws. 

“What - how - that was the stuff they had for dinner?” he exclaims, rubbing his poor lips that now seem to be on fire. “How was that even edible?” Thorin adds while Bilbo bends over laughing. 

“Oh, you know,” Bilbo gasps out, “it was really nice.”

Bilbo enjoys the local’s spicy food - and has since gained the undying respect of their entire caravan for calmly drinking a bowl of soup that even Ondor had suggested to try with moderation. A glance to the side had shown a young merchant’s attempt to imitate Bilbo had led to a rather red face and urgent calls for water among laughter. Hobbit stomachs seem impervious to anything - including also that nice, tangy stew that gave Thorin stomach issues for nearly three days.    


“It's my age,” Thorin complains theatrically to Bilbo sitting at his bedside on another night. “Two decades ago and my stomach wouldn’t be giving me issues!”

Bilbo shrugs and slurps down the remaining noodles in his soup with an astonishing lack of sympathy. “Nonsense,” he declares. “You dwarves may be good at withstanding knocks to the head, but your stomachs and feet have always been delicate.”

Thorin dramatically sinks back into his pillow and throws a hand across his eyes. “You hurt my feelings.”

“Delicate,” Bilbo chirps. “You dwarves are quite delicate after all.” Which is why this time he places the kiss with his still spice-stained lips on Thorin’s forehead. 

And proceeds to demonstrate just how delicately he can treat Thorin later that night.

It's pleasant going after that - the landscape keeps changing around them. They pass green fields, continue on to dry, rocky hills, before passing a plain of fruit-bearing trees. The shade is welcome then, for temperature at midday rise high. Their hosts talk them into the local variety of long silk tunics - not the most fitting cut on Bilbo, but it’s a nice fabric and most of all he no longer feels as if he was melting atop his pony.    


Watching Bilbo ride ahead of him Thorin is once again struck by how much he changed. The foreign clothes, the sun-tanned skin and Bilbo's curls - bright blond now - grow curlier as well.    


"It's the sea, I think," Bilbo says as he runs a silver comb through Thorin's hair at night. "We are getting close. Some folks from Hobbiton have gone to the Gray Havens, and they always complained that the sea air was doing strange things to their hair."

He tugs out a tangle. “Who knows, your hair might end up straightening.” 

Thorin blinks. “I have a feeling that might look ridiculous.”

“Who knows,” Bilbo shrugs, and then his smile turns excited. “I’m looking forward to seeing the sea. Did you know, I never even saw the Grey Havens - and to think that now I’m seeing a place as distant as the eastern sea…”

Thorin reaches up to catch Bilbo’s hand. “I don’t think many from Eriador have ever seen it.”

And he never thought he would. Or want to. But sitting here, next to Bilbo, he feels excitement run through his blood, and thinks that he hasn’t felt this young in a long time.    


* * *

They reach the outskirts of Lim Peng Twhong two full days before they reach the city walls proper. Thorin thinks they may have made the trip in one day, hadn’t they stopped so often to observe a market, marvel at a building or browse the market stalls. Still, Lim Peng Thwong is the largest city Thorin has ever seen, and to think that the capital of Ia must be even larger –   


He shudders and turns to look at the queue ahead. The city gate – three giant, rounded constructions set against sturdy red brick almost thirty meters high and surrounded by a moat – is guarded by a small armored host. Their weapons, Thorin has observed, are well-made, though with a curve he is unfamiliar with. Perhaps he may try one of these – Ja is a powerful country, it stands to reason that its weapons are well-forged.    


Ahead there is a little stir as two merchants are turned away. Despite their pleas and curses in another language, the admittance clerk firmly shakes his head, hard enough to make the tassel on his hat sway. As one of the two refuses to leave, the clerk beckons to one of the guards – but he does not even have to draw his weapon before the merchants turns and stomps away, muttering in frustration.    


“What was that about?” Bilbo asks of Ondor. Despite the wide-brimmed hat Ondor got him, Bilbo’s nose has begun to turn red, and Thorin finds himself rather thankful the day is overcast. Waiting this long in the bright sun would have been strenuous.    


“They didn’t have the papers for their wares in order,” Ondor explains, “The Queen doesn’t want any stolen or fake wares sold in his markets, so all traders looking to sell in the cities have to carry certificates.”   


That might be a good policy for Dale, Thorin thinks. Dwarves have no trouble telling a fake gem from a real one, but men are more prone to be swindled.   


“Huh,” Bilbo mumbles, “That would hardly work in the Shire – how could I prove that I grew my tomatoes myself? Show people my fields?”   


Ondor chuckles. “Very few farmers here come to the markets themselves – it’s simply too far. Instead traders buy their crops and resell, and to ascertain those crops were bought and not stolen they need to get certificates from the farmers’ communities.”   


Bilbo mulls that over. “I guess that makes sense,” he says, and then the queue moves again. Thorin realizes, there remains only one heavy cart ahead of them, and despite having the letter from the Blacklock Queen in his pocket, abruptly feels a little nervous.    


A lifetime ago, when traveling with the reminders of his kin in search of shelter, he had been turned away at gates like these too many times.   


“Thorin,” Bilbo calls, drawing him out of the dark memories, “Let’s move – the merchant is allowing us to go before him.”   


Thorin blinks and is back in the lively buzz of the comings and goings before the main gate of Lim Peng Twhong. Bilbo smiles at him from underneath a bamboo head, his fellow dwarves wear clothes that are unknown in the west. Those dark days, he thinks, are far, far away now.    


Ondor is already greeting the admission clerk in that strange lilting language. He gestures to their group, and Thorin steps closer, Bilbo following along. The clerk regards them with slight puzzlement, before turning to one of his helpers – another series of clerks hidden in the gate’s shadow, who replies something.    


The clerk turns to Thorin.   


“Thorin Oakenshield?” he asks, Thorin’s name strangely accented.   


Thorin inclines his head. “I am,” he confirms, though he wonders whether the clerk will understand.    


"Bilbo Baggins?" The clerk turns to Bilbo.   


The hobbit smiles and replies with what Thorin takes to be a yes in the local language - and the clerk does a double take, but then nods as well. He says something else, Bilbo's smile widens in return, and Thorin looks to his beloved for an explanation.   


As the clerk vanished into the gate to get their papers sorted out, Bilbo turns to him. "He welcomed us. And I think he said they were expecting us and that somebody will pick us up?"   


He glances over to Ondor, who confirms Bilbo's translation. "Quite so. You're of course free to make your own arrangements later, but for now I think they'll get you a townhouse in one of the quieter areas. Also expect the governor to invite you for dinner tomorrow."   


"Does he speak Westeron?" Thorin inquires, abruptly worried.   


"That and a fair bit of Khuzdul,too," Ondor replies. "Don't worry, there are quite a few people speaking Westeron in this town."   


* * *

The house chosen for Bilbo and Thorin lies in the southern part of town on a small hill. From its second-floor balcony they get their first good look on the easter sea. Deep blue water sparkles under a cloudless sky. Gulls sail across it and ships or all sizes glide over the waters below. Their flags and sails shine in vibrant colors and bear symbols that not even the western legends have known. 

Bilbo takes a deep breath of the tangy sea air. Despite the cool air within the building, it is humid outside and between red and green rooftops with golden decorations, the tops of tall trees bend in the wind. A blue-blooming ivy-like plant grows up the wall next to their balcony and Bilbo leans over to pluck one blossom.

“We made it,” he says quietly, turning the flower over in his fingers. “I guess I should preserve this.” 

Thorin reaches over to lay an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “We’ve come a long way,” he agrees quietly and they both know this isn’t simply about the distance they traveled. Looking upon the glittering waters before them, Thorin thinks his heart feels lighter, and even the sky seems to look different here. 

Bilbo chuckles. “A long way indeed. And I wonder where the road will take us yet.” 

“Today?” Thorin raises an eyebrow. “Dinner with the city’s governor as far I know.”

“Right,” Bilbo agrees, “Let’s get some rest before we have to get ready.”

Thorin nods and simply sits down right onto the sun-warmed tiles underneath him. They aren’t exactly soft, but he likes the breeze on his skin and the lively noises drifting up from the lower markets. 

“I guess that works too,” Bilbo comments and follows suit.

Thus, when it is time for them to get up, they are both stiff and their feet are now sunburnt. 

A man-drawn sedan chair picks them up at their townhouse as the sun is setting. The sky glows in bright orange and red - though the colors are already fading into purple and blue out over the sea. With a short burst of longing Bilbo looks west.   


Erebor lies far away - the Orocarni are not even visible from here - and the Shire even further beyond. It's such a long way home, the distance feels almost impossible to surmount. And yet, here they are.   


The sedan chair is surprisingly comfortable, and the city's streets smooth, if busy. As they approach the central parts, Bilbo catches melodies and songs drifting out of taverns and over from the market stalls. Torches have been lit along the roads, and the day's warmth lingers still.   


The breeze carries the scent of food and exotic spices, and Bilbo wonders if some of those have been brought here from even more distant lands. And in a way, this city - that lies on the edge of their maps and far beyond the borders of the maps he grew up with - feels like an end and a beginning: ships sail from here, but they cannot see what lies beyond the sea.   


Soon enough they draw up to a sizable, walled compound.    


"This looks nice." Bilbo comments as they are pulled through the gate into an expansive, well-kept garden with a gurgling stream and quiet ponds. Small bridges extend over them, a wooden pavilion sits over the water. Instead of one large mansion, several smaller houses sit on the immaculate lawns.    


A young dwarf awaits them.

“Welcome your majesties,” he greets them with a deep bow. “Master Tsang will be with you momentarily. Allow me to guide you.”

“Thank you,” Thorin replies and Bilbo inclines his head. The young dwarf, apparently satisfied with their response, turns and gestures through another doorway. “This way, please.”

He is not a very chatty fellow, though Bilbo does manage to wheedle information concerning the local markets out of him. The city does have a central market, the young dwarf says as they eschew the low main building and instead walk deeper into the courtyard, though it is recommended to visit the more specialised markets for rarer items.     


Master Tsang meets them in a pavilion built over a large pond. Frogs croak and cicadas chirps loudly and a delicious scent wafts over from the many dishes set out on a low table in the middle of the pavilion.

Bilbo finds his mouth watering so much he nearly forgets to introduce himself. 

“Please sit,” Tsang invites, easily folding himself in his long silk gown onto a low cushion. “I was told you are inclined to some culinary adventures so I asked the kitchen to be adventurous.” He is elderly, as his near white hair suggests, but his eyes watch his guests with bright curiosity.

“Thank you,” Bilbo replies with a smile. “That sounds amazing.”

Meanwhile Thorin resolves to only eat what Bilbo has deemed secure. Still, he thinks, a few of those foreign dishes now look familiar, and he'll stick with those.

And forgo the white fish.

“So what brings the royal family of Erebor this far east?” Tsang inquires as he helps himself to a good portion of white fish.

As Bilbo has grown enraptured with a baked dish of unknown vegetables in thick sauce, Thorin smiles. “Curiosity, mostly,” he answers calmly. “Initially we travelled to see the prince of Rhûn wedded, and somehow one thing led to another.”

Tsang nods. “Quite a journey though. Her imperial majesty did decide that Rhûn was too far to send an ambassador. Which is why your coming did cause a bit of a stir.”

“We meant no offence,” Bilbo hurriedly interjects and doesn't even pause in reaching for a chicken skewer. “We never expected to come this far. And after traveling this road, I have to agree with the initial assessment.”

Tsang chuckles at that. “Very well, Master Baggins, I shall relay your assessment.”

Thorin, who has been thoughtfully eyeing aforementioned skewers too, glances up. “What may be of interest - while Erebor has never directly traded with the Orocarni, I found some interest there. And while the desert is certainly a major obstacle, should all interested in establishing a trade route join forces, I believe at least a semi-regular exchange could be established.”

“Well, that does sound intriguing,” Tsang replies smoothly. “I shall relay this to the Empress as well.”

Thorin opens his mouth, unsure if he caused offence, but Bilbo speaks first. “Thank you for your consideration. Now, if I may be curious, I was informed you trade with the countries beyond the sea. We grew up with the impression there are no lands beyond the sea.”

Tsang gracefully accepts the change of subject. “Several lands, but I’m afraid our cartographers do struggle as well. The reports we have point to a number of island nations at close or middle distance, and perhaps larger countries further beyond. But few, very few have travelled there.”

Bilbo nods, while continuing to work his way through every dish set out on the table. 

“Most of our trade is with the islands close by or the countries in the south. Khand especially is rich in wares, but the southern isles provide exquisite fruit and fish.” Tsang points to a dish holding an unidentifiable vegetable soaked in a dark sauce. “This dish, for example, is nowadays considered a speciality of this city, but the sauce is made from ingredients grown in the south.”

Thorin doesn’t especially like the look of the dish. Bilbo, undaunted, tries. And his eyes light up. “This is delicious!” he exclaims, “Thorin, try!”

Tsang’s smile widens at the enthusiastic reaction. And he and Bilbo end up talking about food, food, and food. Apparently in the culture of Ia food plays a central role - something Bilbo relates to, and while their ingredients may differ, they soon discuss a number of options in preparing chicken, salads, or other dishes that leave Thorin’s head spinning.

It’s not his subject, but he does enjoy listening to Bilbo talk. His husband’s voice retains its youthful enthusiasm, and it is amazing to realize that the Bilbo sitting next to Thorin now, despite having more wrinkles around his eyes, appears much more at ease with the world and youthful than the one they picked up in Bag End all those years ago? 

The journey to Erebor may have, as Bilbo once told Thorin, helped him recover his energy and thirst for adventure. This journey reenergized both of them. 

Thorin, too, feels far more at ease in his own skin nowadays. Perhaps it is the distance - being away from Erebor, from his responsibilities - but he thinks it is likely more. Traveling this far and learning that the world continues beyond their maps, that even the Orocarni are not insurmountable, that they can make their way to the shores of Ia; it gives confidence.

* * *

 

The night is almost over when Bilbo and Thorin stumble down toward the water. Their bellies filled, cheeks flushed from laughter, and a little unsteady thanks to the bottle of exquisite wine they finished after returning to their home after the dinner. 

Under their feet, the sand is cool, and only Thorin’s good night vision prevents Bilbo’s toes from a painful encounter with a crab. 

“We could catch it and eat it,” Bilbo suggests, staring balefully into the darkness where the crab shuffles back into the black water. The surface seems nearly oily, and the moon has already vanished. 

“For breakfast,” Bilbo adds thoughtfully. “The sun will be up soon.”

Thorin thinks he can make out a sliver of lighter blue in the distance. “We could also head to the market for breakfast.”

To their left, in quite some distance, they can hear the harbor starting to awake. A first few fishing boats, equipped with glowing lanterns, set sail into the calm bay. And from the sky it looks to be a warm, cloudless day. Even now the air is warm enough to sit on the sand without worries. 

Bilbo promptly drops down. “Let’s watch the sunrise first?”

Thorin quietly agrees. His bones - certainly not as young as they once were - protest a little, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. The breeze carries both sea salt and sand to them, while ahead the sky grows lighter.

“You’ll be combing the sand out of my hair,” Thorin threatens as his skin begins to feel sticky from the salt.

Bilbo, his head leaning against Thorin’s shoulders, hums in response. 

They only leave their spot when the sun has come up and bathes the beach in bright, golden light. Bilbo stretches, his bones cracking audibly, while Thorin in vain attempts to settle his hair. Bilbo laughs at him - not that his curls look much tamer. 

Still, without much care for their wind-swept looks and the sand clinging to their clothes, they wander onto the markets.

* * *

It takes them more than ten days to visit all the markets. Then there are other places - the watchtowers on the cliffs just outside of the city walls, the plum orchards, the jewelers guilds with their unusual stones and corals. 

They buy clothes and fabrics and hats to shield from the sun. Take to spending lunchtime in shaded parlors and staying out until nearly midnight. It’s a beautiful and carefree life, and more than once they walk along the elevated seaside promenade, watching the ships pass by.

A sharp breeze tugs on Bilbo's curls, makes them flutter wildly, and the hobbit reaches up to comb them out of his face. His eyes never leave the blue waves with their white crowns. The air smells of salt and ships sail toward the blue horizon.    


"I wonder where they are sailing," Bilbo says as a large ship leaves the cities harbor and unfolds its enormous sails. Even miles from the harbor they can hear the sailors shouting and the sails flapping - the wind carries the sounds far over the choppy waters.   


"Probably to the islands," Thorin replies. They can't see them - the islands with their strange cities and unknown markets lie beyond the horizon.    


"Or even further," Bilbo says with a small smile. On the markets they've heard all sorts of stories and the royal cartographers knew even more rumors. Beyond the horizon lies a multitude of islands, some of their spices and fabrics even sold in the city. But further across the seas, they do not know.   


Sailors speak of other islands. Of dragons and mystical creatures, moving mountains and burning waters. And far beyond, at the utmost end of the sea supposedly lies another end.    


A particular shape gust of wind has Thorin reach up as well. He has learned to tie his hair back here - there is always wind in Lim Peng Twhong. It does make the summer heat bearable, though it does not lessen the sun's glare. Thorin's skin has darkened to the point he wonders if he will be recognized in Erebor, and Bilbo's formerly red nose is turning to tan too.   


"We could sail," Thorin suggests. There is a part of him that is curious - that would want to carry on.   


"Find out what lies beyond the horizon?" Bilbo adds, his smile growing wistful. "I'd like that." It's an idle contemplation, they both know that.    


He eyes the horizon for a moment longer. They both watch the ships turn toward the east, their sails billowing in the wind.    


"But maybe we should go home?" Bilbo says. "We've been on the road for a while. And while I'd like to know what lies beyond the sea, I wonder if that is a journey we could return from."   


And perhaps it's ridiculous to contemplate that. They've crossed the eastern desert, the Orocarni, and the wilderlands of Eriador. The danger ahead of them likely won't be worse than the ones they left behind. Still, in the deep of his heart Thorin agrees with Bilbo.   


Thinking of home warms his heart. They've been traveling for so long, he's actually able to fondly think of the court intrigues back in Erebor.    


"I don't know," Thorin replies, "but I wouldn't mind going home."    


* * *

  
Governor Tsang accepts their decision with a smile and a nod. “Few who have crossed the sea have ever returned,” he says, “Though you seem to have extraordinary luck in your travels.” 

“We also found we wouldn’t mind seeing home again,” Bilbo replies.

Tsang directs them to the cartographer’s guild for instructions. Despite being nominally in charge of map production, the cartographers are also the ones to determine how travel within Ia or across borders is best conducted.

"You will be crossing the desert in the middle of winter" one of the cartographers cautions with a frown. "It's likely quite dangerous."    


"We crossed the desert in winter too, coming here." Thorin protests.    


"Yes, it usually constitutes no problem. However, recently many reports of bandits have reached us. Something is going on and it's has made the trek far more  dangerous. They know that all caravans take the same route in winter - because it's too cold to the north, but there is only desert to the south."   


"Oh," Bilbo mutters. A weight settles on his heart - does that mean the road home is shut? Are they stuck here now, will they never get home?   


"Then what do you suggest?" Thorin inquires. His face remains carefully blank, though Bilbo has known him long enough to realize Thorin is worried.    


Another cartographer clears his throat. "While it would normally be quite a detour, the winds will soon change. Every fall they blow constantly from east to west, and many of our traders sail south to Khand and Harad for winter. They return once the winds change in spring, but I suppose you might be able to travel north from Harad."   


Bilbo blinks. Looking at the map the distance appears not too huge, but as the maps of Erebor are inaccurate regarding the Far East, Bilbo already sees several mistakes on those maps pertaining to Eriador. It won't be easy going home this way. But it is possible.   


"Is going by ship safer?" he asks.    


The head cartographer sighs. "There is a chance you may be able to cross the desert undisturbed and without any difficulty. Yet if I had to make the choice, I would sail."   


"We will think about it," Thorin announces. "How much time do we have to make a decision?"    


"The first ships will sail in a fortnight."   


* * *

That evening Bilbo and Thorin visit a very nice tavern near the harbor. It’s an expensive place, but the views from the first story balcony are exceptional and while the dine on sauteed vegetables and spicy seafood the sky changes colors. From a dusky blue to violet to orange until finally the first stars arrive overhead. 

Most are familiar constellations. But far to the east Bilbo spies stars he has not seen before. 

How does the sky look from the islands? Are there countries beyond the sea? 

“We don’t have to turn back,” Thorin says and when Bilbo turns to him he finds his husband is wearing a faint smile. 

Bilbo frowns, then shrugs and turns back to his plate - which sadly is already empty. “No,” he replies. “If we continue from here on, who knows if we will ever get back. And as much as I have enjoyed this journey, a part of me also misses Erebor.”

Thorin nods and looks to the sea wistfully. “I miss it, too.”

“All our friends and family,” Bilbo says. “I want to see them again.” Then his face brightens. “I don’t think they will believe half of what we’ve seen.”

Thorin scratches his beard - it has grown long enough to braid once more, only he has not taken any beads with him. “No, they won’t. We probably should buy things for them.”

“Commission paintings?” Bilbo asks. “The artists I saw on the market seemed familiar with the Orocarni at least.”

“We could do that,” Thorin agrees cheerfully. “They still may not believe us, though.”

“Well,” Bilbo shrugs and reaches over to steal a piece grilled eel from Thorin’s plate. “That’s on them, I’d say.”

Thorin laughs and surrenders his leftovers to Bilbo. Whatever weight they lost on the road, the stay here has helped them regain. Already Bilbo’s cheeks are recovering their roundness, and Thorin himself feels quite at home in his body. 

“Do you think we should sail?” he asks.

Bilbo sighs. “I’m still not particularly fond of boats,” he admits, before grinning. “But I have to say the route the cartographers suggested does sound quite fascinating. And it may be easier than crossing the desert again.”

Especially if the region has destabilized, Thorin thinks. 

“What do you prefer?” Bilbo inquires, munching thoughtfully on the last piece of Thorin’s dinner while starlight makes his hair shine silver. 

Thorin shrugs. “I think sailing will be easier, though a slight detour. It’s an interesting road, and who knows where it may lead us.”

“Then we tell the governor tomorrow?”

* * *

The governor readily accepts their decision, and Bilbo can tell he is likely glad to have them off his hands. Foreign dignitaries - he remembers from Erebor - are a blessing and a curse. But foreign dignitaries like Bilbo and Thorin who arrived without a clear purpose and yet are responsibility of the city cause headaches. 

The man is exceptionally polite. He also recommends not to take the first ships. But rather to wait for another few days until the summer festivals have concluded. 

Thorin and Bilbo cheerfully agree.

In the following weeks they begin their hunt for gifts. A huge selection of spices for Bombur, foreign daggers for Dwalin. Books for Ori, pipeweed for Bofur. Fabrics for Dori, a trick box for Nori, and choices of everything for Fili and Kili. Paired with Bilbo’s and Thorin’s own possessions - which have grown by now to include a fine selection of clothes in local styles and fabrics - they find themselves looking at several chests of luggage.

“It’s probably for the best we’re taking a ship,” Bilbo comments dryly. “I’m not sure my feet are up to walking all the way back.”

The city’s cobblestoned roads are not made for hobbit feet - for once he envies Thorin’s thick-soled leather boots - despite knowing how sweaty Thorin’s feet get in them. 

“In all honesty,” Thorin cautions as they wander past a number of market stalls toward the harbor, “We rode quite a bit. And then we sailed. I think the most walking we did was from Gvinzaik to the Blacklock kingdom.”

And even that pales in comparison to their initial journey. 

Bilbo elbows Thorin in the ribs. “We got older since then.” 

Thorin eyes him. “Aye, you’ve got a few more white hairs now, I’d say.”

“That’s from the sun!” Bilbo protests.

Thorin dodges the kick aimed at his chin, laughing. “Certainly, certainly.” 

Bilbo huffs. Then his expression turns contemplative as he eyes Thorin closely. “You know, your hair has almost turned silver.”

“Really?” It’s not as if Thorin hadn’t looked into a mirror in forever (he just did so this morning), but somehow he failed to notice. 

“Maybe it’s also the sun,” Bilbo says with a shrug. “But anyway, I saw they were selling hair dye down on the market, so if you want to help yourself…”

“I’m not the one going white!” Thorin exclaims. 

Bilbo laughs. 

They do end up buying dye. Including a set of bright coral blue. 

“We could scandalize everyone,” Bilbo contemplates. “Come back, sun-burnt, in strange clothing, and with our hair green and blue. What do you think would the folks at home say?”

Thorin shrugs. “Probably wouldn’t cause that much of an outrage. You saw that portrait of Dwalin with his mohawk - Balin used to dye his hair orange when he was younger.”

Bilbo blinks. “Well, right. The Shire would’ve been outraged.”

“We can always visit the Shire just to cause an outrage,” Thorin suggests cheerfully as he turns away from the table holding their purchases and wanders over to the balcony of their temporary home. Curtains flutter in the breeze while outside the sun sinks lower. 

“Heh,” Bilbo snorts. “I wonder what Lobelia would think.” 

His smile becomes a little wistful as he admits to himself that is has been a long, long time indeed since he last visited his childhood home. When they traveled last - just after Thorin abdicated - Bilbo had found a number of his contemporaries had started growing old. And there had been so many new relatives he’d never met before - 

He’d like to see them again. 

* * *

And then the morning of their departure arrives.

Governor Tsang himself awaits them at the port, where the sailors are hard at work readying the ship. All luggage has been loaded, the sails are unfurled and a flag flutters in the sharp morning breeze.

“Have a smooth and peaceful journey!” the man wishes, and Thorin inclines his head. Bilbo returns the farewell wish in the language of Ia. Despite practicing he stumbles over the unfamiliar syllables.

Tsang laughs. “Your pronunciation has much improved, Master Baggins.” 

“I’ve not attempted to sell you a table?” Bilbo returns, laughing. The language of Ia, Thorin gathered, possesses some very strange homonyms and hinges greatly on context. Still, that a farewell wish should sound similar to soliciting a sale - he shakes his head. 

“Not at all,” Tsang replies. “It was a pleasure hosting you. Should you wish to come again, the gates of Lim Peng Twhong will stand open.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo and Thorin say at the same time; Bilbo with a wistful smile, while Thorin inclines his head. “Greetings to your Empress, we thank him and you for hosting us.”

As the words have been spoken and the last sail unfolded, a horn blows over the harbor. It’s the signal for the ships to leave, and this morning a fleet is bound to set out. White sails, red sails - Bilbo looks at the foreign sigils printed on them as he follows Thorin onto the deck. 

With their luggage stowed, there is no need to go to their cabin. Instead Bilbo finds himself a nice spot at the reiling. Overhead the sun has risen enough to provide warmth, but does not yet burn, and the water glitters bright blue. 

A shudder runs through the ship as the anchor is lifted. And then, accompanied by many smaller boats, their fleet is off. 

Bilbo watches as the buildings of the city fade away - the curved rooftops, storied towers. Red and green shine under the sun, as far as the eye can see. Lim Peng Twhong is so much larger than any town they had seen; larger than Erebor, then Rhuannon. 

Another horn signal echoes across the water. Bilbo turns his head to see a number of boats with red sails change direction.

“What are they doing?” he asks of a passing sailor in broken Ianese. 

The sailor nods toward the boats and says something utterly incomprehensible to Thorin. Bilbo, however, nods attentively, and waits until the sailor has returned to his post before smiling at Thorin.

“They sail for the islands. Trading spices for furs, or something like that. It could have been shoes…” He shrugs, unconcerned with his limited understanding. 

Thorin chuckles. “Shoes, spices, well, I suppose we may see yet a few more exotic items on our way home.”

Bilbo’s heart warms as the memory of Erebor rises before his eyes. He misses the mountain, the lively bustle of the markets, everyone’s smiling faces. “I’ll be glad to see them again.”

“Me too,” Thorin agrees, wraps an arm around Bilbo and together they watch the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 glad to hear feedback, either here or over on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	6. Southern Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey goes on. This time by ship, and what may have been a rather boring trip provides one very interesting stop over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also featuring: spiders and pirates (so beware of some violence in the last part of the chapter), as well as elves and completely off-the-map places.

On their third day at sea the land falls away. The water gains a darker hue and the wind picks up. 

Bilbo wakes to shouting and emerges from their cabin to find the sailors hard at work, unfurling sails he did not know existed. Thorin joins him moments later, his hair fluttering wildly.

“What is happening?” Thorin wonders as he gazes at the activity on deck. 

One of the passing sailors flashes them a toothy grin. “Now we sail,” he says in accented Westron. Above their heads, three more large blue sails unfurl with a roar. Wind makes them billow, the wood underneath their feet groans.

And their ship picks up speed.

Bilbo carefully looks over the railing to see white foam flying upward; their ship’s bow cutting smoothly through the waves. He has to actually grasp the wooden railing to stay on his feet.

“This is fast!” he calls to Thorin, shouting to be heard over the wind.

Thorin makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder only to be hit in the face by his own hair. Bilbo laughs at him, and Thorin does realize that all sailors on board either wear their hair short, in stiff braids, or have it hidden underneath hats and headscarves.

And after three days of sailing at full speed Thorin, too, twists his braids tighter, then gathers all his hair up in a bun at the back of his head. Bilbo licks his lips.

“This suits you,” he says, smiling. The skin on his nose is peeling from the merciless sun. But the weather is too nice to spend the days inside.

Thorin turns his head into the wind, and his eyes from the distant horizon to Bilbo, whose curls flutter like mad. “Thank you,” he replies, “Should we tie your hair as well?”

Bilbo reaches up to tug at the sun-bleached riot of hair and Thorin can see how tangled it has become. “I don’t know,” Bilbo rather cheerfully admits, “I did try combing it out last night, and gave up after the second comb broke. I’m not certain any hair tie would stand a chance.”

Thorin chortles in surprise. “Two combs?” he echoes.

Bilbo nods. “And while I know what you think of it, I was thinking of maybe cutting it off. It’s growing a bit long, and while it’s fine in the wind, it was getting fairly hot in Ia.”

Thorin grimaces and lifts a hand to touch that mess of curls. It glints gold in the sunlight, but the humidity and the sea air have rendered the usually soft curls stiff and rather untamable - when Thorin tries to untangle a knot, the hair bounces back the moment he lets go of it.

“See?” Bilbo sighs.

“Well,” Thorin somewhat hesitatingly begins. “Maybe you could wait until we reach land?” After all those years in Erebor where Bilbo’s hair barely even lengthened, it’s a pleasant surprise to find it growing here. Hobbit hair is notoriously slow to grow beyond certain lengths, and Bilbo has commented that it’s likely something in the sea air that’s making it grow now.

Meanwhile Thorin’s hair and his beard have been continuously growing. Both could perhaps do with a trim.

“I suppose so,” Bilbo agrees. “But we should make sure to remember, lest we return to Erebor looking like those hairy creatures from that one tale they told us in Gvinzaik.”

 

***

The initial excitement of the new trip, however, wanes fast. There is little to see - every now and then the shoreline creeps back into sight, but it doesn’t happen often. And even then it’s mostly jungle – bright, luxurious green with not a building in sight.

“We sail closer to make out specific landmarks to confirm we’re still on course,” they learn. “But we never stay long - lest we get seen by pirates.”

But pirates remain a theoretical danger, and except for one violent thunderstorm the sea is calm. Bilbo and Thorin, being guests, find themselves without much to do. They help where they can - Thorin with forging and mending, Bilbo with their meals.

One evening Bilbo returns with a stack of papers and a journal.

“I think I’ll start writing down our trip,” Bilbo says. “Though I probably have forgotten quite a bit already.”

Thorin chuckles. “I think I can help with that.”

And they both agree that certain issues needn’t be discussed in detail. Or at all. “Like Gandalf said,” Bilbo explains as he avoids mentioning the sores in uncomfortable places after the first week of camel riding, “all good stories deserve embellishment.”

“And carefully chosen exclusions,” Thorin adds.

So they sail on. South, and while north of them the weather must long have changed into autumn, the air around them remains hot and humid.

 

***

After long weeks there comes a morning when the sailors unfurl merely half the sails. The weather remains good; the sky a bright blue, so Bilbo looks in askance to their captain.

“We’re approaching the thousand islands bay,” she explains with a sunny smile. “Shallow waters and reefs; we’ll proceed slowly from here on.”

“Can’t you just circumnavigate it?” Thorin inquires as he joins Bilbo on deck, fumbling with his hair tie. A stray grey lock escapes, and Thorin fumbles to catch it.

“We could,” their captain replies as she tilts her head to look at what the sailors are doing up in the mast. “But these islands have a port we can use to restock.”

Thorin has now won the struggle and has his hair up in a bun. A few locks still dangle loosely from it, but it looks rather charming, Bilbo thinks. He also discovers it reveals a dark bruise in the nape of Thorin’s neck.

At least it’s nearly invisible on Thorin’s darkened skin, Bilbo tells himself as the blood rushes to his cheeks. Maybe he should tell Thorin to wear high-collared shirts - his neck just looks too delicious. At least Bilbo wears his wide linen tunic with a scarf.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by their captain’s laughter. “Not at all,” she responds to a question Bilbo entirely missed in his distraction with Thorin’s neck. “These are sparsely populated areas, and few of them are interested in our goods.”

Thorin nods and Bilbo feels his stomach tighten with worry. He recalls the talk of pirates, and does hope that the captain is right and these waters are safe.

And truly, for the first half-a day they see nothing but picturesque islands. The waters grow lighter - Bilbo initially thinks it’s a trick of light - but dark blue turns into bright, translucent turquoise. The reefs beneath change from threatening shadows into clearly recognizable rocks surrounding by bright white sand.

Plants grow on those, their long stilts swaying elegantly in the current. Bilbo sees many colors - red and orange and purple and pink and blue, and it's so different from the seaweed that lined the shores of Lim Peng Thwong.

“What are these?” Bilbo asks, pointing down to a rock covered in bright pink plants with a large school of glittering, colorful fish darting back and forth between them. Hiding lower he sees a large blue fish that swims forward over white sand, and he almost doesn't notice the ship’s captain stepping up next to him.

“The fish? That blue one is a yellowtail, though I believe locals use a different name. Tastes awful, though.”

Thorin snorts and Bilbo shakes his head. “Actually I meant those underwater plants - what are those?”

“Those? Corals. You'll find the market of the place where we’re headed is selling quite a few.”

Bilbo’s eyes light up.

“What else can we find there?” Thorin asks, silently amused at Bilbo’s unbridled enthusiasm. Knowing his husband, he'd be more than willing to taste that yellowtail fish as well.

Their captain shrugs. “A lot of jewelry made from shells. Pearls. Exotic feathers. Most of it is handicrafts.”

Bilbo's expression brightens even further. “That sounds amazing!” he declares, “When will we get there?”

She laughs. “If the weather remains calm, about three days.”

Those three days pass quickly. Bilbo and Thorin now spend nearly every day on deck, marveling at the colors of the underwater world revealing itself to their astonished eyes. The sailors take note and soon mealtimes include a wide variety of local fish.

Which in turn attracts local birds that are surprisingly bold. One even dares to steal a fish from Thorin’s plate, much to the entertainment of everybody on the ship.

The yellowtail even Bilbo declares “very chewy and tasteless”. He solved the issue with the liberal application of various spices and sauces. Their captain looks on in astonishment and Thorin only shrugs. “Hobbits have stomachs made from steel.”

“So I'm learning,” she replies. “You may wanna ask the locals for the Raga spider dish when we lay anchor. Everybody I met so far declared it utterly inedible.”

 

***

One thing their captain did not mention about Raga, Thorin finds out the moment it comes into view, is that it's run by elves. He recognizes the style of the buildings peaking forth between lush palm trees immediately and his hands instinctively tighten their hold on the railing.

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “Elves in these lands?” he inquires.

“Eh yes,” one of the sailors comments. “But they’re not like normal elves, or so I've been told.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look. “I didn't even know there were elves here.” Bilbo says.

“I doubt anybody knows,” Thorin replies and forcibly pushes those last, weakened tendrils of old misgivings aside. “Which means they’re probably truly different.”

Before they get to meet any local elves, however, they have to make it to the shore first.

Instead of a harbor, their ship anchors in a wide, protected bay. The beach before them rises gently and is lined by small, wooden boats, with dark-skinned men and women walking back and forth between them and a thick jungle behind it. Smoke rises over lush green trees and Thorin catches sight of more elvish spires and architecture.

Somebody points at their ship, a few people turn and wave. The captain calls over to the sailors to signal back, a flag is raised.

“It's market day,” one of the sailors passing Bilbo comments. “We’ve got good timing.”

“Great,” Bilbo calls after him. Then he looks down. The clear water looks deceptively shallow. “But how do we get there?”

It's still a good distance to the beach after all.

“We row,” the captain declares and then turns to the crew. “Lower the boats!”

The crew cheerfully obliges. Today is a holiday for many of them - only a skeleton crew will remain on board, see to repairs and general check-ups. Others will shop for provisions, but most can enjoy a day at the market. And some, Bilbo and Thorin find out, have family here.

“This is Maram,” their captain introduces a young sailor with curly black hair that springs forth from underneath a self-made hat of colorful wraps. “She grew up on one of the local islands.”

“Aye,” Maram replies. “I'll make sure they won't screw you over here. And that the great spiders won't get you.”

“Great spiders?” Bilbo and Thorin echo simultaneously, paling. Mirkwood may have been decades ago, but some things are harder to forget than others.

Maram looks undaunted, their captain laughs. “As big as your hand,” she explains, “Very hairy. But they're harmless - it's their hairless cousins that can kill you.”

“What?” Bilbo squeaks. Thorin, speechless, reassess their decision to go ashore. Maybe they should go to their cabin and hide until they're far, far away.

“They're a pain. Tend to hide in crates too,” their captain adds.

“You mean they get on the ship?” Thorin asks, rapidly coming to regret his decision to sail. Maybe they should have braved the bandits of the Great Eastern Desert.

“Sometimes. Mostly we get the fur spiders. They're large and harmless and actually quite soft.”

Maram nods. “Some people keep them as pets - they eat smaller spiders and scorpions and mosquitos. We say that in the heart of the jungle is the Big Spider that is their mother and she will reward those that treat her children well.”

“That sounds interesting,” Bilbo says, his face still a bit pale.

Maram laughs. “Other people eat them.”

“They're delicious!” a sailor yells over and is rewarded by a cleaning rag being thrown his way from another part of the ship.

Maram grins at the antics. “Apparently so, but I'd rather not ask the locals here for meat. You can taste grilled spider a few islands further.”

“Alright.” Even Bilbo does not seem all too enthused at the prospect of grilled spider. Thorin decides he won't visit that island at all.

First, however, they have to climb down a road ladder into a waiting rowboat that takes them to the shore.

“The water is quite warm,” Bilbo comments as they jump out and splash ahead while the sailors pull the boat further into land.

Thorin blinks in surprise. “It is,” he agrees, and thinks about maybe trying to swim later. In recent evenings many of the sailors went for a swim after the ship was anchored - and now he can understand it. The water certainly isn't as warm as that of Erebor’s hot springs, but it's nice.

Especially since the sun already bakes them all day.

After the markets of Gvinzaik, the Blacklock kingdom, and Ia, the town market of Raga is unexpectedly small. “Though it’s not as if the week market in Hobbiton was any larger,” Bilbo comments after their initial surprise.

It is also far less hurried. Few people are browsing the stalls, and the vendors leisurely engage their customers in conversations or sit by and work on crafts and carvings. Some stalls are unattended, and “you simply call out,” Maram explains. “Everybody here knows everyone, so it won’t take long to get folks here. Or some neighbor could handle it.”

“It’s very much like the Shire, then,” Bilbo says, “Except it very much depends on which neighbor is around. But I’m surprised the elves have adapted to this.”

Thorin nods in agreement. While he rather enjoys the laid-back atmosphere here, the town - except for a few (highly visible) architectural feats - doesn’t feel particularly elvish.

“That would be because it has been ages since we last had contact with our kin west of here,” a new voice interrupts in accented Westron. Bilbo jumps, Thorin stops, and they all turn to find a tall, sun-tanned elf smiling down at them. He is - like all here - clad in light linen decorated with colorful stitched patterns and small ornaments. His hair is donned up in an artistic bun, held together by corals and bird feathers.

“Apologies, we meant no offense,” Bilbo hurries to say, and the elf laughs.

“Do not worry,” he replies, “It has been long since I heard Westron spoken here, and I will admit my curiosity at seeing a dwarf and a -- halfling -- in these lands brought me close.”

“Hobbit,” Thorin corrects automatically, while Bilbo doesn’t even register the insult.

“In this case, would you mind entertaining our curiosity as well?” Bilbo asks. “I never heard of elves having come to these lands, and I was wondering when this settlement was established, and -”

The elf laughs. “I shall gladly answer your questions, Master Hobbit. Should we find a place to sit down?”

They split from Maram and follow the elf - Miniel - to his workshop. It’s part of the old palace-like structure nearly hidden in the jungle, and many unfinished pieces of decorative jewelry sit out front. Behind the house they find a wooden porch covered with linen cushions, shaded by palm trees and facing an empty part of the beach.

Miniel brings out a cold milky drink in clay cups, and this even Thorin enjoys.

“It comes from a tree fruit,” Miniel explains, “They aren’t uncommon here, but I believe over in Khand they have them in abundance.”

“Do you know if they transport well?” Bilbo inquires, refilling his own cup.

Miniel frowns. “I’m not certain. They last quite a while, but I do not know how they will fare in the north. If I may ask, where do the two of you come from?”

And so Bilbo and Thorin end up retelling their tale. Miniel is curious, and in the end they go back all the way to the fall of Erebor. When Thorin comes to speak of Thranduil’s betrayal (and surprisingly time and distance have softened the edges), Miniel blinks.

“Thranduil - he is the son of Oropher, is he not? I believe I met him once, as a child.”

Both Bilbo and Thorin stop at that. “What?” Bilbo bursts out. “When?”

Miniel chuckles and leans back to look up at lush green palm leaves and a cloudless blue sky beyond. “You see, this settlement, and I believe there are a few more in these jungles, was founded by elves like me. Silvan elves, Avari, or who knows what we are called nowadays,” he says. “Some of us settled here back in the first age, others returned here after the wars, sickened by the violence and bloodshed. These lands do not harbor the greatness many desire, but they are peaceful and plentiful, and far from the worries of the world.”

“In my case,” he continues, “I lived in the Greenwood before Oropher came there after the War of Wrath - before it was known as the Greenwood. And I suppose the histories call me and my kin who lived there uncultured and primitive, and perhaps they are right. But we did live, joyfully and at peace with the world and each other.”

Bilbo listens with wide-eyes, and Thorin, too, is momentarily spellbound. Both of them know the history of the Greenwood, of the East. They have - Bilbo more so than Thorin - spoken to the elves who have lived there for ages, heard the tales of that dark past.

“I must admit,” Thorin says with a quiet smile, “I have only ever heard the other side of the story.”

Miniel smiles at that. “I think all who would tell my side are the ones that left. Those that stayed welcomed the changes Oropher brought to Mirkwood, and from the rumors I heard over the years those changes may have been for the better. But I did not love these, so I left.”

“Did you come here immediately then?” Bilbo inquires.

Miniel shakes his head. “I was aware that others had disappeared into the jungles of the south, or beyond the shores of the Eastern Sea. Only after I began my own journey I realized that those who had disappeared had in many cases not died, but chosen to start new lives. Some bloodlines have mingled deeply with the islands beyond, so they say men from there live long, like those from Numenor. Others have founded small, isolated colonies within the borders of Ia or the mountainous terrain of its borders.”

“And others came here,” Bilbo adds with a smile.

Miniel raises his cup. “And I believe we got the best deal.” He takes a sip, then carries on. “I saw many places on my journey, but this was where my heart deemed me to stay. The weather is warm, the food plentiful, the people kind - truly, the only thing to watch out for are the spiders.”

“Though I heard they taste rather good,” Bilbo cheerfully comments, and Thorin nearly chokes on his drink. 

“I have to admit,” Miniel begins slowly and with both eyebrows raised, “I never dared to try.”

 

***

And while Bilbo remains intrigued by the prospect of grilled spider, Raga’s market fails to deliver. Luckily, Thorin adds, they don’t encounter living spiders either, but that is before they find the one market stall selling divination and magical props. The man running it has a number of very alive and active spiders sitting in small cages, as well as plethora of colorful feathers.

The feathers come from birds that live deep in the jungle. They shine in blues, red, purples, and shimmering iridescent colors. A number of vendors (and a few elves among them) use them for jewelry and decorative purposes together with corals and pearls.

Bilbo is immediately in love with the materials, and Thorin already thinks about how they could be combined with Erebor’s more traditional materials. A crown of gold and corals would look amazing, but so would pearls on mithril (on his beloved’s head, most of all), and the tunics with their colorful embroidery come down to Bilbo’s knees, but are delightfully airy and cool.

Buying them takes some effort. Only a few of the senior jewelers even accept gold coins for currency (“honestly,” Maram explains to them, “most people trade eggs, milk, chickens, or any form of produce. Only the vendors that have regular trade with the passing ships here accept coin”), but once Bilbo decides to trade a few pieces of his own jewelry (items they carried all the way from Erebor to Rhûn for the coronation), they get what they want easily.

Maram helps them with translating between Westron and the numerous local dialects that drive Bilbo to distraction. He attempts to remember the numbers - but soon finds that the words are only the same among certain groups. The islanders or those coming to Raga from further inland use different words again.

“It makes sense,” Maram promises, when Bilbo complains. “Once you figure it out, it all makes sense.”

Thorin quietly disagrees, but he also looks around them, and thinks that it doesn’t matter. Elves and men communicate cheerfully anyway - more enthusiastic now that the sun has begun to set and the heat recedes somewhat - and he doesn’t think he has ever seen a place more at ease than this.

Even the Shire, for all its picturesque peacefulness, according to Bilbo has vicious intrigues brewing underneath. Raga apparently has not.

“Well, there are conflicts between the clans sometimes,” Maram explains later. Night has fallen and a huge fire in the central square has been lit. People laugh and dance and sing in an inspired mix of deep drums and elvish elegies. “But I people have also gotten used to turning to the elves whenever these tensions erupt.”

“Do they offer counsel?” Bilbo asks, munching happily on what had been introduced to them as a fish pancake consisting of two very flat and round fish with a mashed root and fruit filling between them.

“Not really,” Maram says. “I mean, sometimes they do. But the traditional way to deal with trouble here is to banish the perpetrators. Nowadays, the elves help with establishing contacts so we can send a few people to the outside world every now and then. It kind of helps keeping the peace, I think.”

Bilbo nods and Thorin finds himself agreeing. “So everybody who aspires to travel can leave?”

Maram nods. “Yes. Also the elves like to tell our clan leaders to send the very clever ones away to learn. Not everybody likes that, but most of our clan leaders were educated either in Khand or Ia. Of course, of those who leave few return.”

Understandable, Thorin thinks. Remembering himself at a young age and his hunger for glory, he thinks he might have easily gone mad had he grown up in a community like Raga. Yet apparently they found a way to appease those longing for more.

“I do wonder,” Bilbo says, “Aren’t there many people leaving then?”

Maram shrugs. “There are, but these are small communities. I don’t know if anybody is truly hoping for them to grow, and as long as enough remain or return to support our hometowns, I think it’s no issue.”

“Also,” Maram adds, “not all of us enjoy live in Khand or Ia. Khand, more than Ia, tends to see unrest ever so often, and we usually grow up only knowing it from tales. Ia again is all about strict regulations and that’s nothing we are familiar with either.”

Bilbo laughs. “I see,” he says, and then climbs to his feet. “But I also have to say I’m rather tired. Shall we head to sleep?”

 

***

They wake up with the sun the next morning. Around them the jungle is alive with the calls of wild birds and animals, and Bilbo picks a small insect out of Thorin’s hair. In the end they had decided to simply camp on the beach like a majority of their crew did - this morning their clothes are damp, and there is sand everywhere.

Bilbo sits up, moves his head, and several loud cracks echo.

“Wh’t?” Thorin mumbles sleepily, opening an eye.

“I may be getting too old for this,” Bilbo states, stretching out his arms and making another few joints crack. “But that is a very lovely sunrise.”

Thorin grumbles, but eventually struggles to wakefulness. Quite a few people are already up, out fishing on their boats, and smoke rises from the town behind them. Bilbo leans against Thorin and they watch the sun come up.

Until eventually Thorin reaches up to touch his own hair. “...this is disgusting.”

Bilbo bursts out laughing.

“Yours isn’t any better,” Thorin tells him with a dark glower while fumbling in vain to at least get the worst tangles out of his hair.

“Mine has been like this for a couple of days,” Bilbo says, touching his own matted curls reluctantly. Then he sighs. “Let’s ask, maybe they have a lake where we can wash up nearby.”

There is, Maram tells them. If they follow the beach around the western corner, they’ll come to a small bay which is great for swimming - lots of corals, lots of fish - and just a few meters into the jungle is a huge lake. “Follow the path,” Maram tells them, “You can’t miss it.”

So loaded with fresh clothes and a few provisions Thorin and Bilbo set out. Their ship will anchor in the bay at least two more nights while the sailors mend the sails and restock.

The bay is a little further away than they imagined - or perhaps the heat is to blame. “It can’t even be time for Elevensies yet,” Bilbo complains, wiping the sweat from his face, “and I don’t think the Shire has ever been this hot in summer. Isn’t it supposed to be winter now?”

Thorin merely shrugs. But even the bare skin of his exposed torso isn’t doing much to help him cool down.

While Bilbo would rather head straight for the clear water lake, Thorin is curious about the sea. The bay they find is truly beautiful. White sand, shallow translucent water which turns the lightest hue of blue further out. So like the few other locals around they drop their gear in the shade of a huge palm tree, strip their clothes, and wade in.

The shallow water is warm, though as he goes in deeper a few cooler currents sweep around Thorin’s legs. He then tilts forward, allowing the water to take his weight - and is surprised how easily it carries him.

“Do come out,” he calls out to Bilbo who hesitates. “It’s quite easy to swim here.”

Bilbo grimaces. He can swim, but deep water still isn’t his friend.

“There are also amazing fish here!” Thorin adds, casting a glance down. He actually has to watch out in order not to smash his feet against a coral - the water isn’t deep and the seafloor is covered in colorful, blooming plants.

A splash behind him tells him that Bilbo is joining him. The hobbit certainly doesn’t cut a very elegant figure swimming out to meet Thorin, but once he notices the water carries most of his weight he relaxes quickly.

Two local boys wave them over, pointing down.

Neither Bilbo nor Thorin can understand what they are saying, but when Thorin takes a chance, dives and opens his eyes underwater, he finds himself surrounded by a school of thousands of tiny, bright green fish.

Below red, orange and purple corals sway elegantly in the current, bright blue and yellow fish darting between them, and Thorin forgets to come up for air. So rapt is he taking in the fascinating tableau that only a burning in his lungs reminds him to come up.

Bilbo eyes him with concern.

“It’s amazing,” Thorin gasps out the moment his lungs have filled. “You need to see that, Bilbo!” The boys, now a little further ahead, laugh and Thorin’s unbridled enthusiasm, before diving back down.

Bilbo eyes them and Thorin skeptically. “I can see that it’s very pretty,” he agrees, treading water. “But I’d rather -”

Thorin shakes his head. “You need to see this from below the surface,” Thorin says. “It’s not the same.”

Bilbo frowns. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I’ll hold you up,” Thorin calms him.

Bilbo nods and then takes a deep breath. As Thorin expected, he truly has no need to keep Bilbo afloat - the water is doing that already, and Bilbo, too, stays under far longer than Thorin has ever seen him before.

When he finally comes up, his eyes are wide with wonder. “You were right,” he declares.

And after that they end up not speaking very much at all. Both spend most of the morning swimming and drifting leisurely over the reef, only coming up for air ever so often. There are bright shells, fish of all sizes and colors. Corals that look like flowers, like trees. Only when the skin on Thorin’s back begins twinging he realizes they have been out under the sun for hours.

Bilbo only reluctantly agrees to go back. “We can come back later,” Thorin suggests, “Or tomorrow.”

Bilbo nods, though he has to admit that his back and buttocks have become rather heated by now. Likely both of them have gained rather bright sunburns, and sitting down in the shade brings only a small relief. The fruits they took from the market taste great as a snack and they soon follow the - truly obvious - path to the lake.

Within the jungle it’s always louder and more humid, but also darker and slightly cooler. The pool’s water is green and bright flowers bloom on the far end. Thorin enters it first, finding the ground shallow and smooth. Bilbo follows him into the cool water with a groan of relief.

“Oh, this is nice,” he declares, letting himself sink further into the pond. “So nice.”

While Thorin smiles, Bilbo has already taken a deep breath and submerged himself. When he comes up, hair dripping down his shoulders, he sighs contently. “I’ll miss this. Seawater always leaves me feeling so sticky…”

Thorin nods, unbraiding his hair. It has grown stiff - but clear water aboard a ship is a precious commodity, and seawater is a readily available alternative. Maybe he'll imitate the rest of the crew during the remainder of their journey and head out onto deck whenever they get caught in a thunderstorm.

For now, though, he takes a deep breath and submerges himself, enjoying the sensation of clean water washing out the sand and salt.

When he surfaces, Bilbo has moved up to sit on a boulder behind him and gestures at Thorin to come closer. “Let me do this,” the hobbit beckons.

Thorin smiles, gets into position and let's his head fall into Bilbo’s lap. Nimble fingers immediately begin to wind through his hair, working out the tangles and knots and when they begin to massage the skin of his scalp Thorin groans in satisfaction.

Bilbo chuckles, and continues to work wordlessly. Thorin finds himself glancing upward. Patches of bright blue sky gleam through a thick green foliage. He can make out red and purple and yellow flowers in the trees, hear birds chirp and the bushes rustle. Bilbo starts humming a familiar tune - something he picked up in Rhûn, Thorin thinks and wasn't that so long ago?

They've come so far, seen this much - Thorin finds himself smiling. It's all incredible and amazing and there is no other place he'd rather be right now. Bilbo too, exudes utter contentment, idly toying with Thorin’s hair the way he always enjoyed. Because for all the distance they traveled, all the ways the road changed them, and all the things they learned, they are still themselves. Or maybe, Thorin thinks just as a tiny, oscillating bird flutters by, they're both more themselves, the way they can only be without politics and responsibilities pressing down on them.

Somewhere between wondering if there might be a place like this similar closer to Erebor or if they might find their way back here one day he dozes off. The water is pleasantly cool, the air warm, and Thorin finds the last bit of tension seeping from his muscles.

He only wakes when Bilbo gently claps his shoulder and calls his name. “As nice as this is,” Bilbo says, “we should probably get out before we grow tails and flippers.”

Thorin blinks and lifts wrinkly fingers to grasp Bilbo’s equally wrinkled hands. “Alright,” he replies, and stretches. The little nap left him feeling rather energized and he wonders if Bilbo is up for another round of diving for corals.

The hobbit shakes his head. “I'll take a nap this time around,” he declines, and while Thorin wanders back to the bright blue water, Bilbo finds himself a shady spot under a palm tree.

In the evening they return deeply relaxed, slightly sun-burnt in Thorin’s case, and quite hungry. The fishers brought in crabs and squid, and those go on sticks and are rolled in spices and roasted over the fire. Of course this attracts bats and mosquitos, but nobody minds and before long somebody procures a clear alcoholic drink and shortly after everybody is singing.

 

***

Their third day in Raga is spent equally leisurely - perhaps because a good number of both local population and visitors are nursing impressive hangovers. Bilbo gets a haircut, Thorin a trim, and both confess at feeling rather more like themselves. They purchase even more things to use or to carry, and Bilbo collects a variety of local flowers to press and preserve.

Miniel invites them to dinner and Bilbo finally gets to try grilled spider. Thorin recoils at the sight of the fat, blackened bodies alone, but Bilbo cheerfully breaks off a leg. “Crunchy,” he decides, “More spice than anything else.”

Of the body he says: “Interesting consistency - quite hard outside, very soft within. A bit bitter, to be honest.” 

Thorin is quite gladdened that Bilbo doesn’t like the dish so much he plans to import the recipe to Erebor.

 

***

A fresh wind has picked up on their fourth day in Raga and as the sun rises Bilbo and Thorin are being rowed back to their ship. Sailors are already unfurling the sails, and freshly mended tarp billows in the wind. Excitement lingers in the air; the sailors are singing, and Bilbo - still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, smiles at Thorin.

“Time to journey on,” he comments, while a ladder is being lowered from the ship. “I did like this place. But today feels like a nice day for sailing.”

The first person from their boat climbs up. Thorin turns to his hobbit with raised eyebrow. “You like sailing? A hobbit enjoying being out at sea?”

Bilbo chuckles. “If you put it like that … but I suppose, I just am a very scandalous hobbit.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Thorin groans. “It’s too early for that.”

But he does make a note to make use of the relative privacy of their cabin later tonight.

Soon the anchor is being hauled up and stored away, and their captain gives the order to sail ahead. The spires of Raga disappear quickly beyond the evergreen forest, and their ship picks its way through shallow waters and beautiful reefs toward Khand.

 

***

“I don't like it,” the captain says, setting her spying glass aside. A sharp breeze pulls at her hair and the sails overhead billow in the wind. They've left the bay of thousand islands behind four days ago and are now sailing faster into open waters, the shore a faint line almost out of sight.

“What is it?” Thorin inquires and Bilbo follows her gaze to the distant shoreline on their right.

“I think I saw activity there,” she says. “Could have been an animal, but we’re almost to Khand now. There's pirates in these waters.”

Bilbo pales and Thorin presses his lips together. “What do we do?”

She shifts her weight. “Continue. Changing direction may only get us farther from our goal. Once we reach the river we’ll be safe - but until then we’re on our own.”

Gazing out on the endless blue waters, Thorin gulps in face with the undeniable truth of those words.

“If we sail out of sight?” Bilbo suggests tentatively. 

She grimaces. “It is an option, but one that would set up back days, and still may not save us. No, we’ll pursue our course and double the watch.”

 

***

The shore remains quiet for the rest of the day. Bilbo and Thorin both rather regularly find themselves casting worried glances in that direction, but there is nothing but swaying trees and long sandy beaches switching to irregular cliffs from time to time.

By the time the sun sets they all have relaxed a bit, but it still takes long for Thorin to fall asleep.

Only to be woken what feels like moments later by the shout “pirates!”

A roar follows, then the clash of metal meeting metal, and Thorin jumps to his feet. He reaches for his sword, Bilbo following behind him, and Thorin spares a moment to bark “get your mithril” before bursting out.

It's chaos on deck and Thorin's heart surges. Shadowy figures fight with each other, the ship sways violently, and a shout behind Thorin makes him turn at the last moment to parry a stab aimed at his back.

The pirate falters, staring at Thorin in surprise, but Thorin’s blood sings with the familiar hum of battle. He throws himself forward; motions that are second nature even after so long a pause, knocks the blade out of the pirate’s hand and cuts a thin line up his face - the man stumbles back with a pained howl, but Thorin merely kicks his weapon overboard before turning and heading on.

A boarding hook slams into the wood next to him - Thorin cuts the rope without looking, kicks another unwary pirate overboard, and thinks that they likely haven't seen many dwarves in these parts, because nobody seems to see him coming.

He catches sight of their captain battering her way past three intruders with swift, practiced motions, and for the first time that night his fear abates. Those pirates are no match for the ship’s crew in skill, their makeshift weapons barely sharp enough to make a cut.

Thorin turns and one rusty sword shatters into pieces upon meeting Orcrist’s gleaming blade. The pirate squeaks, eyes widening, and Thorin feints toward him with a blow never meant to connect. It doesn't - instead the pirate’s back hits the railing and in his panic he throws himself into the dark water below.

But when he looks down Thorin sees a mass of boats lying before their ship, many more coming toward them from the shore, their passengers armed to the nines. Flickering torches cast orange shadows on faces grim with determination.

Thorin’s chest tightens. Those pirates may not be skilled, but they have the numbers.

“Thorin!” Bilbo shouts and Thorin turns to see a pirate collapse right behind him, Sting piercing his chest.

Bilbo pulls the blade back, doesn't spare the pirate a look, his eyes focused on Thorin. “Are you alright?”

Thorin nods sharply, glad to see his husband equally unharmed and clad in the glittering mithril shirt. “We need to get away from here,” he tells Bilbo and gestures toward the crowded waters.

Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath. “We do,” and then he straightens his back to yell, “Captain! We need to leave!”

She dodges a swipe, looks to Bilbo, sees what they are seeing and nods.

“Anchor up, sails out!” she shouts and dispatches yet another pirate. The crew immediately obeys and Thorin can see the anchor chain.

He jumps down, following a group of pirates eager to stop the crew from lifting it up - two fall to his blade, Bilbo takes down another, but one gets through and with a pained yell one of their own collapses, blood spreading around him.

Thorin roars, but Bilbo plucks a knife from a fallen pirate and throws - the aim dead on, catching the attacker in the throat. A wet gurgle, the pirate collapses, while the anchor crew curses and groans, straining to lift the weight with two instead of four.

“Help them, Thorin!” Bilbo orders swiftly, spinning around to dodge another blow and launch an attack of his own. Thorin leaps forward, dropping Orcrist and reaching to grasp the heavy iron chain. He struggles and his muscles ache, and behind him there’s a loud bang as the sails unfurl.

Shouting and the sounds of battle grow more frantic. Bilbo curses, there are more pirates headed their way, but Thorin can't let go, the anchor’s just started moving. His hands sweat, the chain chafes against his skin, his heart races - but they're lifting the anchor and Bilbo yells a triumphant “ha!” and the ship begins to move.

“Course to the red stars!” their captain orders, and under the ship’s hull wood splinters. Voices shout and scream, but now the ship is moving, wind in its sails, and the pirates struggle to keep up, keep steady -

They finally get the anchor up, fix it there, and now all that's left to do is take care of the stragglers - though Thorin turns to a sight that makes his heart stop. Bilbo fights two pirates at once, dodging and twirling and with far more skill and elegance than the hobbit they dragged from Bag End all those years ago possessed.

But still - before Thorin’s horrified eyes a blade smashes straight into Bilbo’s side, throwing the hobbit off his feet and onto the ground.

Thorin is on the offender before he even noticed he started moving. Orcrist slices the pirates head off with one clean blow, and when Thorin turns on his heel the other pirate is backing away, fear written all across his features. Thorin won't show him mercy, not for attacking Bilbo, not for hurting his husband, even as the pirate drops his sword with a frightened noise, takes a step back, then another -

“Thorin, stop it,” Bilbo calls, sounding miffed.

Thorin glances over to see Bilbo sitting up, pulling the mithril shirt back into place from where it slipped up reveal the sunburned skin of his thighs. The pirate uses the moment of distraction to take the leap into the water, and with no further distractions - the fighting on deck is dying down - he crosses over to Bilbo’s side.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his heart in his throat despite having seen the mithril catch the blow.

Bilbo grimaces. “That will leave a bruise, but yes.” He sighs. “Let's go and help the others.”

Thorin nods. His heart will need time to recover from the scare - but they both got out of it fine, and now they need to help the rest of their crew.

And put on some clothes. Bilbo is wearing his mithril vest over a loose linen nightshirt and Thorin only wears a pair of short linen undergarments. Not that many of their crew wear much more.

It turns out they lost two sailors in the skirmish. Damage has been dealt to the deck and ship, so to restore morale - and because few can sleep after this - repairs are beginning immediately. Sailors mop up blood and splinters, dropped weapons are collected and kept or discarded. Dead pirates dragged overboard, the bodies of their own set aside for a later sea burial. A number of wounded pirates are set on a boat without their weapons.

“They should make it to the shore,” a sailor comments as they watch the boat drift away.

Bilbo nods to himself. It's a harsh judgement and yet it feels fair - they barely have the medical resources on board to patch up their own (the ship’s one doctor usually works in the kitchen and watching him work makes Bilbo mutter that he is “rather glad we’re not requiring stitches.”

Thorin nods in silent agreement. 

In the far east the sky has begun to brighten. A clear day dawns, and several with it the certainty that they are alone on the water.

“Go and get some sleep,” the captain tells them as she marches by, a cool compress pressed against a sluggishly bleeding cut on her cheek. “We should make landfall this afternoon.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look. The energy from the battle has seeped away; Bilbo yawns and stretches. 

“Fine,” Thorin agrees. Decades ago he’d not be able to sleep now. Perhaps it is age, or maybe he has grown more secure in his trust in others, but now he can feel his eyelids growing heavy and his body demanding rest.

So he follows Bilbo back to the soft pillows and swaying beds of their cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this far! Two more chapters left - we will be heading into familiar lands with familiar faces soon. :3 And I'd love to hear your thoughts, either here or on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	7. Kingdoms of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be winter up in the north, but down on the shores of Khand the heat lingers. After leaving their ship and crew, Thorin and Bilbo find they must decide which road to take: the fastest skirting the eastern plains of Mordor, or the longer crossing the desert to Harad and to turn north toward Gondor from there.
> 
> And while Erebor remains yet far away, the world around them slowly begins to look familiar again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long, very fluffy chapter. Featuring some familiar faces.

The next morning Bilbo stumbles on deck, rubbing his eyes, when the sun just rises over the horizon. A cool breeze whistles across smooth blue water; an azure sky spreads overhead, and land sits on the horizon.

Next to him Thorin yawns and stretches.

“Look,” Bilbo says and points toward the distant shore, “Khand!”

Thorin squints; but even if he spies barely more than a dark sliver in the distance, he can sense a shift in the air. The sailors have risen exceedingly early this morning; already the sails billow and their ship drifts toward the shore with decent speed.

“How long until we reach Khand?” Bilbo calls out to their captain as she passes them on her way to the aft deck.

She grins. “We’ll reach Varayedzi later today. You’d best get ready.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look. After all those weeks at sea, it seems another part of their journey is ending, and it’s both sad and exciting. Because new lands await, and far beyond all those unknown roads lie familiar lands and home.

“Back when I was young my mother sometimes mentioned Khand in her stories,” he tells Thorin as they sort through their belongings back in their cabin. “I could never decide whether or not the place actually existed, and never found a reliable map either.”

Thorin chuckles. “We knew it existed, but I don’t think we ever had relations or visitors from there. Though … I think a few merchants from Khand settled in Dale.”

“Who knows, some may make the trip again,” Bilbo replies as he carefully folds away another of the stitched tunics they purchased in Raga.

“Maybe,” Thorin agrees. And then: “When did we acquire all these things?”

Two large chests sit in their cabin, packed with souvenirs and curiosities. “We left Erebor with much more,” Bilbo reminds him. They had an entire trove then, laden with lavish gifts and fancy clothing. They left most of it in Rhûn.

“Let’s hope we’ll find a way to get this all back to Erebor then,” Thorin says, though in truth he is not too worried. For all the distance they came, it hasn’t made much of a dent within their financial cushions. They still have lots of gold and mithril and precious stones, and the closer they get to Erebor, the easier it will be to gain credit.

Khand, however, is still very far away from Erebor.

* * *

 

Anchoring in Khand after Raga and all the weeks at sea comes as a shock. The harbor is teeming with life, ships of all sizes and colors anchor hull to hull. Sailors, hawkers, merchants and seagulls all try to drown out each other’s shouting. The air is hot and humid, thick with smoke and the smell of fish and spices. Men and women in long, loose fitting shifts hurry along the harbor walls and disappear into narrow, winding streets.

Varayedzi slopes uphill in a maze of colorful, richly ornamented stone house with countless terraces, statues, towers, and windows from wish laundry and curtains flutter. The green and red and yellow buildings seem to expand as they rise, casting shadows over the streets, and above all sits a vast, white dome at the top of the hill.

“The regent’s palace,” their captain explains as Bilbo and Thorin watch their ship being unloaded. “It’s a bit tricky in Khand - the country’s split between the last King’s four children with each of the ruling their own part with their own rules and laws.”

“That sounds complicated,” Bilbo comments, tugging at the collar of his white shift. Both Thorin and him have grown fond of the clothes they bought in Raga - they are light, yet long-sleeved; airy enough to withstand the humid heat, and long enough to protect from the merciless sun.

Even this early in the day the heat already rises, and the air above the buildings blurs.

“Khand isn’t an easy country,” their captain says, frowning toward the palace towering above the city. “They are rich in resources, yet these lands are both a curse and a blessing. There will always be demand for the goods shipped here from the east, for their own products over in Harad or up north.”

She pauses then, forehead wrinkling.

“North of here,” Thorin says quietly, “lies mostly desert.”

“That, and Mordor,” Bilbo adds, frowning.

Their captain’s lips quirk in a humorless smile. “Aye, that’s it. But the north does not merely request goods; the north expands influence. It’s been growing, in those last couple of years, and it leaves many here uneasy.”

Thorin shudders. “Mordor is strengthening?” He doesn’t recall having heard of this, but they left Erebor so long ago. Hopefully they know of this.

She sighs. “That’s what the rumors claim.”

Bilbo glances to the gulls overhead. The sky is cloudless, if slightly hazy toward the northern horizon. “Let’s hope it’s just a rumor, then.”

* * *

 

With the help of their captain Bilbo and Thorin manage to negotiate the rent of a townhouse for the duration of their stay. While initially eyeing them with a good deal of skepticism, the landlord lets himself be swayed by three finely cut emeralds from Erebor. The house itself sits squeezed between two larger buildings, its red facade ostentatiously decorated. Within, it is dark and cool, a welcome relief from the heat outside that has grown near unbearable.

As their ship will anchor in Varayedzi for at least a fortnight, Bilbo and Thorin make loose plans to meet back with their captain and crew within the next few days. For now they will get used to being back on land, while the crew is busy trading their wares and making repairs.

Once everyone has been wrangled out of the house, Thorin shuts the door, puts the lockbar into place, and then climbs the staircase downward. It’s even cooler here, and he sighs in relief.

“A blessing, isn’t it?” Bilbo asks conversationally from where is sprawled out diagonally across the low bed. It shouldn’t be possible for a hobbit to take up space enough for two fully grown men, but then again nobody should be able to breathe with their face pressed into rich, red silk covers.

Thorin ignores said impossibility, nudges Bilbo’s leg aside and sinks down on the bed himself. “I thought you’d be exploring the house,” he says and reaches down to untie his shoes. The linen fabric of his Ia made slippers certainly is much better suited to local temperatures than any dwarven boots ever were - but he envies Bilbo’s ability to walk barefooted. At least he didn’t have anybody recommend children’s shoes to him.

“I’ll do that later,” Bilbo murmurs, not lifting his head. “Nap now.”

Thorin chuckles, wriggles his toes as the shoes come off. “Not a bad idea,” he agrees, “though how about you scoot over?”

Bilbo makes a noise of disagreement. “Don’t want to.”

Thorin nudges him with his hip. “Just a little.”

“No,” Bilbo whines, muffled against the covers. “Take the floor - you’re too warm, anyway. The floor’s nice and cool and will help you chill.”

“I think I’ll just lie down where I am,” Thorin announces in turn and dramatically flops down on top of Bilbo. The bed bounces, Bilbo groans, and Thorin squirms until he’s comfortable. It’s not too bad, he thinks, and the fatigue behind his eyeballs becomes more insisting.

“You’re suffocating me,” Bilbo announces drily after a moment.

“I thought I was too warm not too heavy?” Thorin snipes back without moving. He receives a half-hearted elbow to his stomach for that.

“Also you’re making me think of things that would require rather more energy than I have right now,” Bilbo adds and wiggles his bottom against Thorin’s hips. A heat rises to Thorin’s face that has nothing to do with the baking sun outside, and at this point he raise himself on his elbows to allow Bilbo to move to the side.

They end up lying on their sides, face to face, and Thorin finds his smile reflected in Bilbo’s eyes. “Maybe later?” he asks, “It’s been a bit since we had privacy.”

“Are you sure the walls are as soundproof as they look?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin glances over. “They are. I may not know much of carpentry, but I’m still a dwarf and I recognize solid rock when I see it.”

“Then we should use that,” Bilbo declares, his eyes crinkling. “But for now - let’s sleep.”

* * *

 

They regain consciousness in the afternoon. Thorin takes a moment to gather his bearings, while Bilbo goes through a short phase of grumpiness. Then, once both of them feel more like themselves again, they decide it was high time they explore the local markets.

“I hope they’ve not yet closed down,” Bilbo frets as they slip on a fresh change of clothes. “At least we need to get some food.”

“I’m sure there will be a place where we can find something,” Thorin assures him. “A town this size - somebody will always be hungry. You do recall the deep kitchens of Erebor, don’t you? I have it on good knowledge you were a not too infrequent guest yourself.”

He locks the door behind him, as they turn to follow the shaded street down. Trees grow along the house walls, bearing purple fruit - though Bilbo guesses there must be a reason those haven’t been eaten yet.

“Yes,” Bilbo agree and tugs at the collar of his light tunic. The heat yet lingers in the narrow streets. “However, unlike Erebor, this city obviously has clearly recognizable night and day phases.”

They turn to walk uphill toward the Grand Palace. Their captain said they would find the largest market there; she also pointed out their letter of passage from the governor of Ia’s Lim Peng Twhong would easily get them inside. However, they are not yet convinced - should a connection between the rulers of Khand and Mordor exist, revealing their presence could put them into danger.

Before long both are huffing and sweat-bathed once more. “We’ve been at sea too long,” Bilbo grinds out, warily eyeing the remaining distance uphill as he steps aside to catch his breath. “I thought I was fit for my age, but those stairs apparently have set out to prove me wrong.”

Thorin, for the moment, is too out of breath to reply. But he does notice the surprised glances they draw. They are visibly different, standing out about as much as they did in Ia; not only separated from the locals by their language though also by their races. He hasn’t seen any but men so far, and wonders if dwarves or elves even live in these lands.

“I think we’re doing well for our age,” Thorin says to distract his mind from his contemplations. Also, because he can breathe again. “Remember the story of that King from Rhûn? The one who demanded to be carried everywhere?”

“He did lose a leg in battle, though,” Bilbo points out.

Thorin shrugs. “So did Dain.”

“Dain also set up an archery contest for the blind,” Bilbo remarks.

“It’s popular,” Thorin replies shortly as they tackle the remaining stairs.

Bilbo replies by giving him a flat look. Popular, indeed, because either the arrows end up in impossible locations, or they end up dead on target and leave everybody quaking in their boots.

“Oh look,” Bilbo says instead as they finally reach the top of the stairs and the street widens onto a vast square, “We made it.”

Thorin glances around him. “We did. But where is the market?”

Indeed, the square they look on is vast, but not very crowded. Trees line well-kept grass and shallow clear water pools. Behind those, on the far side of the square, the Grand Palace’s outer wall rises. The brick work has been painted white, and carved into elaborate patterns and figurines. Guards watch the closed gate, and only the top of the turrets are visible above it.

There is no trace of a market.

Bilbo glances around, and watches folks clad in colorful garments with their arms filled with baskets of produce wandering in and out of shadowed side streets. “Maybe it’s that way?” he suggests.

Thorin eyes the dark entrance with skepticism. While he cannot make out the details, it looks busy and he has a small blade under his clothes in case things go wrong. Bilbo already started wandering forward; the closer they come, the clearer the details grow. Apparently the market is indeed hidden in small side streets and has spread through the houses between them. Underneath hollowed out buildings and linen planes shielding it from the sun, a labyrinth of food, cloth, and a myriad of other goods sprawls out.

Spicy smoke drifts out of a store, a baker has set up store next to it, and the fabric seller offers silks in bright colors and bewildering patterns. Bilbo’s eyes widen and his jaw drops; as if compelled by an invisible force he steps forward and Thorin follows. The market feels like an entirely different world, separated from the outside like a universe of its own.

The mutters that have followed them disappear into the clamor of music, rattling wares, singing, and advertising shouts. Curious gazes disappear into wallowing smoke and behind transparent fabrics - and Bilbo has already drifted over to a fabric vendor. A number of the other customers look to him in surprise, and Thorin makes certain to stay close. It is difficult to make out what weapons might be hidden under the long flowing robes people here wear.

“What do you think?” Bilbo asks, lifting a forest green fabric that bears small golden flower patterns. “It would suit Tauriel, no?”

“It would also suit you,” Thorin replies, though whether or not Bilbo hears him over the din remains unknown. Instead Bilbo begins to gesture wildly in order to attract the vendor’s attention, and Thorin belatedly realizes that they have no idea of the local language.

Or what locals think of dwarves.

But Bilbo spits out a phrase that sounds like utter glibberish to Thorin and the vendor tilts his head. “Yes,” he replies hesitantly in Common. “A bit.”

Bilbo beams. “Great!” he exclaims. “How much for a meter?”

The vendor blinks. “600 for a scarf.”

Earlier, when exchanging money with the captain, Thorin got 6000 local coins for a ruby. Meaning this fabric is rather expensive, unless “what is a scarf?” he cuts in, “Can you show us?”

Apparently Thorin isn’t the first customer to ask that question, because the vendor complies without blinking. Meanwhile, a woman dressed in fiery red silks leans over and whispers. “600 is too much. Ask for 400.”

But before any of the two can ask her any more, she has disappeared back into the oscillating crowd. The vendor reappears with what seems to be the basic denomination size of fabric - the scarf. It’s a garment that’s far longer than a meter, but not as wide - likely what people here use to cut their draped gowns and loose coats from.

Bilbo nods. “You have this in other colors, too?”

“Yes, yes,” the vendor points behind him. Purple, pink, all shades of blue and green, black and silver; a sheer rainbow of variety. Thorin bogles, Bilbo’s smile widens.

He pulls a ruby from his pocket and slams it on the table. “I’ll take twenty.”

The merchant’s jaw drops. Everyone around them freezes, and Bilbo grins with the confidence of somebody who has successfully haggled his way around the world. So Thorin dutifully fades into the background and lets Bilbo do the negotiations - which soon involve two more fabric traders, a tailor, and a leather merchant.

An elderly woman comes up to Thorin with a cup of steaming tea, and with a wry grin he accepts. This will take a while.

“I asked them to make us coats in that local style,” Bilbo explains later when he left two rubies as half the price behind. “We’ll stick out a bit less that way.”

“We’re still a hobbit and a dwarf,” Thorin remarks.

Bilbo shrugs. “Eh. But we are invited to join everyone at the fabric guild tomorrow night. Apparently they’re having some sort of party.”

* * *

 

“If you want to arrange transports to distant lands beyond Khand,” Bilbo and Thorin learn from Maram as they revisit their ship the next morning, “you’d best talk to Lord Marjeewi. He’s the leader of the trader’s guild and has good ties to all the local guilds and traders. Beware though, he does like to overcharge.”

Bilbo and Thorin look at each other. Then shrug.

“It’s not as if we have too many options,” Bilbo declares with another shrug.

Getting to see this Lord Marjeewi, however, turns out a small challenge. At first they are told he doesn’t receive guests at all, the earliest possible appointment would be half a year away. Thorin has half a mind to bribe them, but Bilbo shakes his head minutely. “Let’s wait for tonight.”

So Thorin follows his lead, and after an early lunch on the market they return to their home to hide from the heat. Their home has a beautiful shaded balcony looking out toward the sea over artfully ornamented rooftop. Framed by lush greenery that stirs in a light breeze, it’s beautiful spot for breakfast and dinner, and Thorin thinks it ought to be a sweet spot for a nap too.

But he’s not laid down and closed his eyes for long before the thick heat makes him sweat. The breeze isn’t enough, the heat stifling.

With a sigh Thorin sits up, and trudges down into the cellar where Bilbo lazily opens an eye as Thorin hits the mattress next to him.

“Too hot,” Thorin grumbles.

Bilbo grunts and goes back to sleep. Thorin wonders if Bilbo will even remember this later, then he closes his own eyes, relishes in the cool air, and drifts off.

* * *

 

They return to the market where they join yesterday’s acquaintances and head to the party together. The tailors’ guild owns a small palace down the street from the city overseer’s own building - it’s painted in vivid red, bears many mosaics and rather outrageous statues.

Some look a bit like the traditional patterns they saw in Raga.

When Bilbo asks as to the meanings of the decor, their current companion shrugs her shoulders. “They have special meanings where they come from, I suppose,” she replies, “But we’re just tailors - all we do is use the patterns we are given. Whether you want the Great Spider, or something else, it’s the same to us.”

“Most of us,” somebody else cuts in. “Some of us still adhere to the old beliefs.”

“You would also work with foreign patterns?” Bilbo asks, with a certain gleam to his eye. Thorin recognizes it. So does their companion.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly. “Only gives us a detailed description and we shall try to fulfill your every wish.”

At which point Bilbo starts to talk about certain adjustments he wants to have done to his order. Involving geometric patterns, a vast variety of flowers nobody this far south has ever heard of much less seen, and a tapestry of Dale woven from local fabrics. Thorin listens with no small degree of intimidation - Dale will love such a gift, obviously, and so will everybody else Bilbo is planning for. And the local tailors look intrigued.

“Speaking of impossible, “Bilbo mentions at some point in the conversation, while Thorin takes a leisurely drag of the water pipe set down at their table, “we were trying to see Lord Marjeewi for travel arrangements… Is it truly that impossible to see him?”

The three tailors seated at their table laugh. “He likes to be difficult,” an older woman announces, waving her hand and making her solid gold bracelets clink against each other. “But it’s not impossible, no.”

“Whom do I ask?” Bilbo cheerfully returns.

“You could ask me,” she says, “My nephew is running a business with Marjeewi’s eldest daughter. Or you could ask Anam over here - Marjeewi’s his brother.”

The man named as Anam grins and waves.

“Fantastic,” Bilbo exclaims, “Would you tell him we’d like to stop by tomorrow evening?”

Bold, Thorin thinks, and hides his own grin by inhaling the fragrant smoke again. Then again, this appears to work with the men here, as well as it worked further up north - they laugh and nod, and before long Anam has one more order, and Bilbo and Thorin have an appointment for tomorrow night.

But this night is far from over.

Food follows, and drinks, and before long Bilbo is being taught songs in different local dialects and for all his talent with languages, Thorin thinks he’s butchering them horribly. But the locals don’t mind, and Bilbo clearly enjoys singing his heart out.

Thorin would have been content to stay in his comfortable corner of silk cushions, thick smoke and spicy liquid. However, then space in the middle of the room is cleared for an artistic performance involving swords. Not usual swords - the dagger-sized blades Thorin has seen locals carry on their belt. But elegantly forged, curved scimitars with jewel-encrusted hills and blades sharp enough to cut even stone.

Thorin’s eyebrows rise. Once the performance has ended, he leaves his corner to wander over - and yes, yes, they’re quite happy to let him hold one of the blades for a moment, and those are the traditional weapons of local nobility, and he’s very welcome to visit their stands on the market.

* * *

 

 

Lord Marjeewi is a tall, thin man in clothes that are simple in design but of high quality. He greets Bilbo and Thorin with a business smile, and invites them to sit and share his table. Then he asks for their tale.

“We are travelers,” Bilbo replies while he helps himself to one of the juicy fruits set out. “Blessed with fortunate circumstances which allow us to afford our travels.”

“But you must be more than that,” Marjeewi tries. “Two Dwarves? How unusual! We barely have Dwarves in the capital, and they always come from the north. But I heard you came from the south? On a ship.”

“Yes, we sailed in from Ia,” Thorin confirms, shifting in his seat.

“Such a long journey,” Marjeewi exclaims. “And where do you look to go now? I heard that was why you wanted to speak to me.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look while Marjeewi unrolls a large map. Thorin feels uncomfortable; he isn’t certain he wants to trust Marjeewi with their final destination.

“Gondor,” Bilbo declares abruptly.

Marjeewi raises both eyebrows and Thorin bites his lip to keep his own surprise from showing. Gondor posits a rather grand detour - if they’d headed straight north and slightly west from Khand they would reach Erebor directly.   

However, Mordor lies in the middle of that path, and the western path through Gondor may be much safer (if longer) than the eastern road to the north.

Lord Marjeewi sighs loudly. “Gondor, indeed. Now that is a tricky journey.”

“Yes,” Bilbo confirms lightly, “and if possible we’d like to send some things to Erebor as well.”

Marjeewi’s eyes grow even wider, and he only shakes his head. “This is …”

“Impossible?” Bilbo asks cheerfully. “You were recommended to us as the man to manage the impossible.”

Marjeewi straightens under the compliment, while Thorin laughs to himself. Years of politics have left very deep traces within Bilbo - and not all of them unfortunate or useless.

“Well, let me see,” Marjeewi begins with a sigh. “The road to Erebor - I suppose you mean the road that goes through Mordor to Gunjarv. We have traders travelling that way regularly, arranging this should be possible, if not cheap. From Gunjarv I can ask somebody to arrange a transport to Rhûn for a fee, but I’m afraid I cannot arrange anything beyond there.”

“Very well,” Bilbo nods, and the wheels in Thorin’s head begin to turn. They have contacts in Rhûn, and they will probably take care of any letters of items Bilbo and Thorin send.

“What about bandits and robbers? How safe is that road?”

Marjeewi sighs. “As safe as any other that skirts the Great Eastern Desert, I’m afraid. Most traders and caravans pass through with only minor troubles, but should some of the easterling tribes happen upon them…” He makes an unmistakable gesture.

“What about the road to Gondor?” Thorin asks, changing the topic. “How safe is that?”

“What road?” Marjeewi replies ominously. “There is no road from Varayedzi to Minas Tirith.”

“But you trade with Gondor,” Bilbo declares. “I’ve seen Gondorian pottery on the market.”

A shrewd smile comes on Marjeewi’s face. “Indeed, yes. The road to Gondor is traveled by ship and camel or horse. You sail up the river as far north as you can. Once there you keep south of the Shadow Mountains - that is an unforgiving region, all dust and stone, and if you make it past that, you’ll find the first cities. From there on the border isn’t far, though you will find the Gondorian border guard quite strict.”

His face twists for a moment. “Though you are obviously northerners. So dwarves or whatever, you should not face problems. It’s probably Harad you ought to worry about.”

* * *

 

“That did not sound very promising,” Bilbo summarizes as they return from the meeting to their house later that night. The streets are still busy and loud and filled with life.

Thorin agrees with a grunt. “What road shall we take?” he wonders and closes the door behind them.

Bilbo purses his lips. “I know the northern road is faster,” he says. “But would you terribly mind going to Gondor?”

“Not at all,” Thorin agrees with a relieved sigh. “I have not heard any news, but to think our road may pass through Mordor fills me with dread. I’d rather take the long way around.”

“We need to write to Erebor then,” Bilbo says. “Let them know we’re on our way, but will take a while longer again.” He lets himself sink on the large cushions that surround a low table, where a fruit bowl awaits.

Thorin follows, slowly folding his legs as he settles himself on the ground. He feels tired tonight - perhaps after so long at sea the crowds of the city have worn him out. “Do we rely on Marjeewi for our arrangements?” he asks while Bilbo chews on a dark red local fruit.

“Did he appear that untrustworthy?” Bilbo asks in turn, his forehead wrinkling. “I had the impression he wasn’t keen on unprofitable contracts, but not outright criminal.”

“You’re probably right,” Thorin grimaces. All those decades of struggling to make arrangements for his wandering people return to him this night, and with them his misgivings. They’ve been cheated more than once.

“Well, you obviously have experience,” Bilbo says quietly, having followed Thorin’s line of thoughts. “So if you don’t want to trust him, I will trust your judgement.”

Thorin’s heart warms and he settles more comfortably against the oversized pillows.

“Though we can probably use him,” Bilbo continues thoughtfully. “We needn’t trust him with our lives, but we can trust him with our baggage. I’m not keen on traveling through Mordor, but if those fabrics and ornaments do, I don’t mind. And we’ve amassed so much, it will likely be easier to send a good part back ahead of ourselves.”

“Hmmm, that will likely cost quite a bit,” Thorin mumbles as he allows his eyes to slide shut.

Bilbo shrugs. “I doubt we won’t be able to afford it. And given the right price, I’m sure Marjeewi will make fair arrangements.”

Because he likely won’t fetch a higher price if he sold the goods on any market himself, Thorin concludes. High-ranking hostages, however, should their identities become known, are much more likely to inspire treachery.

“What do we do?”

Bilbo huffs. “We ask our Captain. Marjeewi said the first part was sailing up the rivers here, and she might just know somebody willing to take us. Things will likely be a bit more complicated, but we don’t have to rely on him.” 

* * *

 

 

Their erstwhile Captain can indeed set them up with a trade ship sailing up the river. It does still cost them a fair sum to get an actual cabin, but for that price, the ship’s captain promises them with a sunny grin, they’ll not have to lift one finger.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t have minded helping out,” Bilbo comments later as he and Thorin leave the harbor to explore more of the city, “But I’m afraid hobbits aren’t made to work on ships.”

Thorin agrees with a grunt. “Though it’s perhaps got less to do with you being a hobbit and me a dwarf - I’m afraid we simply lack the education.”

“True enough,” Bilbo agrees easily, his hair shining under the rising sun. “I wonder if he’d have given us a discount if he’d known you could do great motivational speeches.”

“I doubt they translate very well,” Thorin protests. “Your drinking songs, however, might be more to the sailors’ tastes.”

Bilbo elbows him. Thorin laughs. And then they come upon another of those hidden squares with a small pool and lush greenery in its middle, and are distracted. The city is a maze of small and winding streets, hidden squares and spaces, grand palaces and colorful domes, but also dark and decrepit corners. Where Ia’s rigid controls and high walls kept the cities strictly regulated, Varayedzi is crowded and chaotic.

It’s drawing all kinds, they learn another evening at another feast, people come from the islands, from inland. From the small towns, unhappy with farming, from the desert, even from Harad; all having heard about the glories and the opportunities. And while many indeed manage to establish themselves in one way or another, not all do so.

Thorin expressed vague surprise. They have seen only very few poor, and none utterly destitute.

“Those have all been recruited by Mordor,” Anam tells them darkly on another evening they spend sitting and smoking and drinking together. “Their recruits spy out the unlucky and wait for their luck to run out entirely before approaching them.”

“Then Mordor is amassing an army,” Thorin states, pale-faced.

Anam shrugs. “For all we know the folks might be trying to safeguard their borders and rebuild their country.”

“And the rulers of Khand tolerate this?” Bilbo asks sharply.

“You may have heard that at least one of them does not share the dislike held by the northern kingdoms,” Anam replies sharply. “And why should they care? In their eyes Mordor helps to keep the cities clean - and the country safe.” His eyes grow darker. “A huge majority of us is indeed discomforted by Mordor’s traditional politics. But if allowing its scouts to collect the unfortunate of our streets, give them work and pay, and will keep Mordor from considering us an enemy to be attacked, it is a discomfort to be born.”

Bilbo swallows.

“The world cares little for us,” Anam continues, leaning back against his pillows. “What we have, we worked hard for. And we will not risk it for the sake of the politics of northerners that have ever since looked down on us.”

“I know at least one northern King who used to think the same thing,” Thorin comments, and Bilbo abruptly glances over to him. Thorin’s lips twitch. “In fact, this political stance is rather common in the north, too. Though as the conflicts spread, few were left with a choice.”

Anam sighs. “This may be true for Khand too before long. But well” he shrugs. “I’m a trader. I’ll leave the politics to others.”

* * *

 

The ship that will take them and a part of their purchases up the river is much smaller than their earlier vessel. As such the cabin Bilbo and Thorin charter feels cramped, barely offering enough to space for all their things. But then the river is not the open sea and instead of weeks this journey is supposed to last barely a fortnight.

Most of their belongings left the city two days ago already. Another ship will bear them north first, before they will be loaded on a wagon going further. Should no trouble befall the load, it should reach Rhûn within a month, and Erebor weeks after. By that time, Thorin hopes, he and Bilbo will have crossed both Harad and Khand and be on their way through Gondor.

He hasn't yet fully decided which road to take after the border. The shortest road to Erebor would certainly be turning north directly after Minas Tirith. But that is not an easy road.

* * *

 

“You know,” says Bilbo the fourth day after they left Varayedzi and their ship calmly passes small villages and lush green fields, “I think I’ve gotten used to ships.” He shakes his head. “The river no longer looks intimidating.”

“It’s not a particularly scary river either,” Thorin replies, settling down next to Bilbo on the cushions set out on the aft deck. With settlements to the left and right there is very little danger of an attack, and they have already been informed not to expect any exciting currents.

“Well,” Bilbo mutters and flops onto his back; sun--bleached locks sprawling out over red silk pillows. “I think I like it.”

Thorin chuckles. “It’s a rather comfortable way to travel.”

And it is. They fall into a hazy rhythm where they leave their cabin shortly after sunrise. The air gets too hot and sticky below deck fast - but there is always a warm breeze blowing across the afterdeck where they settle in the shade of a large sail. One of the cabin boys starts bringing them refreshments and snacks, and when Thorin tips him generously, this turns into a common occurrence.

A few times their ship stops at smaller towns to trade, and Bilbo and Thorin have an opportunity to visit the markets. The richer towns boast breath-taking palaces with colorful decor, but they also learn that away from the river the country grows poor. Little farming can be done in the desert, and the further away from the river into those towns they go, the more these tales grow observable.

Bilbo remembers the City of Tents and the nomads of the Great Eastern Desert, but all this gains is a shrug. “The Haradrim live that way, too,” their local guide tells them. “We do not. Except for the northerners, they have been attempting this.”

“But they’ve also pledged their alliance to Mordor,” he adds darkly and spits on the ground.

Thorin shivers. They won’t be able to entirely avoid northern Khand. But hopefully their road through the desert will prove safe.

Though likely not as easy as their leisurely journey on the ship. Which is why both of them bide farewell to the ship and its crew with no small degree of reluctance.

“Well,” Bilbo says, as he and Thorin find themselves in a bustling, utterly foreign city with sprawling green gardens lining the river banks and duty red hills with great palaces overlooking it all, “I suppose it’s time for another adventure?”

Thorin grins ruefully. “It is.”

But the sky is also blue and wide and endless and a soft breeze blows from the west. Something deep in Thorin’s chest stirs - perhaps he’s ready for home, but the prospect of unfamiliar roads ahead pulls at him. And he can see the same gleam in Bilbo’s eyes.

So they cast off the lull of the onboard journey, pack away their luxurious clothing, and dress in simpler garb made for the unforgiving climate of the desert. Bilbo straps Sting to his waist once again, Thorin exchanges his scimitar for Orcrist, and the caravan leader they approach eyes them carefully, before he nods slowly.

“You come prepared,” he says in fragmented Common. “That is good.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a grin. And later, when they head back for one last night in town before they will leave Khand and begin to say goodbye to these unfamiliar parts, Bilbo shakes his head. “Looking back on that trip through the Eastern Desert - we’d have never made that if not for everyone who helped us.”

Thorin nods. “We weren’t really well prepared.” And his initial refusal to trade his clothes for the more practical linen coats now feels especially silly.

“Not at all,” Bilbo laughs. “But now - look at us.” No small degree of pride colors his words, and Thorin thinks that even if they’re far from being as well-acquainted with the desert as the locals, they’ve come far. From the naive travelers that set out on a spur of the moment decision and a thirst for adventure, they now both are confident to negotiate their way onward entirely on their own.

“We’ve come quite the way,” Thorin agrees. Physically and literally. Because while he traveled much in those dark years of exile, too, it was never to lands so distant and unknown. Back then he’d never have dreamt of seeing the shores of Ia, the wonders of the Blacklock kingdom, the Sea of Stars..

And remembering these makes him excited for more.

* * *

 

They leave the city before sunrise. Their caravan counts 300 men and women, and many more animals. Few have donkeys and horses to ride, and most walk on foot, while the animals carry the heavy loads. The ground slopes continuously uphill, and it makes for slow going.

“This desert isn’t hot,” one of the young traders, Ejir, tells them. He’s apprentice for a major Varayedzi’s trade broker who hopes to establish a direct connection with Minas Tirith - an ambitious undertaking. “It’s freezing.”

The higher they come, the colder the wind gets. After a short break Thorin spies many wrapping themselves in additional clothes, and he warily eyes the cloudless blue sky. It feels hardly different from the skies out over the Eastern Desert. But there only the nights had been chill.

Nights here are icy.

Bilbo and Thorin end up cuddling for warmth under five layers of blankets. The ground turns rocky and barren and gives little comfort either. It’s a dead and dreary landscape, and the trek through it difficult. But little by little they advance - their guides know the dangers, know where the slopes are not quite as steep and where the gravel is not quite as loose.

“We’re in Harad now,” Ejir tells them one day. Thorin glances around - the desert remains an unremarkable plain of dusty rocks and dried out ground.

“How can you tell?” he asks.

Ejir points to their right. “The mountains.”

Thorin squints, but sees nothing. Yet next to him Bilbo makes a surprised noise. “Yes, I see them,” he confirms. His eyes widen a bit.

“Are those the Shadow Mountains?” he asks.

A shudder runs down Thorin’s back. The border to Mordor.

“Yes,” Ejir nods. “We’ll follow alongside them until we leave the desert.”

Right, Thorin recalls. Their caravan will disband at a small market town behind the desert. From there Thorin and Bilbo must attempt to make passage north on their own - it shouldn’t be too difficult, they were assured, but the relations between Harad and the north continue to be strained.

Thorin knows he’ll sleep easier once they’ve reached Gondor.

* * *

 

They trek on. Water and food have been carefully rationed, and while Thorin’s stomach grumbles, and Bilbo grimaces, they both rest easier knowing their provisions will last. The lingering shadows of the mountains now constantly visible to their right make the caravan nervous - crossing the Great Eastern Desert did not feel half so strenuous despite being objectively more dangerous.

One evening Thorin finds Bilbo watching the mountains, shivering in the cooling wind. This far south, winter brings no snow, but the desert grows icy during night.

“What is it?” Thorin asks as he drapes one of the thick woolen blankets over Bilbo’s shoulders.

“Something feels strange,” Bilbo says without looking away. Thorin can make out billowing clouds over those bleak mountains - but in the fading light it might as well be an illusion. “Wrong even. Like Mirkwood felt when we passed through it - back when it had fallen under the Necromancer’s thrall.”

“We won’t have to pass those mountains,” Thorin reassures, wrapping an arm around Bilbo. He is glad they decided against crossing Mordor’s territory.

“And wasn’t the enemy destroyed anyway?”

Mordor, to Thorin’s knowledge, is barely a political entity anymore. It only continues to exist due to the neighboring states inability to settle the territorial questions.

Bilbo’s brow creases. “Yes. But… we’ve been gone a long time, Thorin. Who knows what happened while we were in Ia and Raga and so far away from everyone?”

Worry curls in Thorin’s chest. It’s true that it has been long since they heard anything at all from Erebor. But when he closes his eyes and listens to his heart, he feels confident that things must be alright.

“Once we get to Gondor, we can make inquiries,” Thorin suggests. “They have always been very politically aware - they’ll at least have a vague idea of what is happening in the east. Also,” he casts a small smile at Bilbo, “with some luck we could find a messenger. Gondor didn’t use ravens, but they had other venues.”

Bilbo relaxes against Thorin. “I would like that,” he says. “I miss them, you know. Even Bofur’s terrible songs.”

Thorin elbows him playfully. “You wrote half of them.”

Bilbo tuts. “I believe you’ll find the author of these songs to be a Boggins, not a Baggins.”

Thorin chuckles and turns his eyes away from the Shadow Mountains toward the west. The sun has sunk below the horizon; but the sky yet burns in red and orange. Even after all the beautiful cities and spectacular landscapes they have seen, sunsets and sunrises remain a thing of exquisite glory.

“Let’s go and get some sleep,” Thorin suggests. “We’re having an early start tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Mornings in the shadow desert will not become a fond memory, Thorin thinks as he tries to convince himself to unbundle. The sky has only gained the slightest dusting of light in the east, but around them their camp stirs to life.

Curled up against each other, Thorin and Bilbo are warm - the air that caresses his face, however, is icy. He’d rather stay in their cozy cocoon.

“We need to get up,” Bilbo mumbles next to him.

Thorin sighs. Right now he misses his warm bed in Erebor fiercely. But, he contents himself, as Bilbo pushes back the covers, they are on their way back. It’s a roundabout way, but once they’ve crossed the desert, the road will become easier again.

And the desert mornings are spectacular in their own right. His breath fogs as he hurriedly wraps himself in a change of clothes and follows Bilbo over to the camp fire where a meagre breakfast awaits. While he spoons out the hot broth, he watches the stars fade in the west. Basked in twilight the world around them shimmers in blue and purple, before the sun starts to ascend.

By the time the sun rises, the caravan has broken up camp and has started moving. A few more days in the shadows of the Shadow Mountains before they reach their goal. Relief begins to grow palpable - despite the roughening terrain, the end of their long trek grows near.

So they continue.

Until one evening, when Thorin has almost fallen asleep, Bilbo elbows him awake. “Look at the stars, Thorin,” he says, and shuffles the covers back enough to point to the ink black sky.

Spread out overhead, the sea of twinkling stars makes Thorin’s head spin. But they are beautiful, no matter where.

“See those three over there?” he points toward the northwest. “I know them.” Thorin can hear the smile in Bilbo’s voice - his own heart skips a beat and his eyes focus on the constellation Bilbo points out.

“Back in the Shire we called that the old willow,” Bilbo says.

“We have another name,” Thorin replies. “But I admit, we dwarves have paid little attention to the stars. I don’t know if this one is visible from Erebor.”

Bilbo chuckles. “It is. Far to the west on the winter sky,” he says. “But well, it’s amazing to see familiar stars again. I never noticed we got so close - back in Raga the stars were all so unfamiliar, and now … it’s almost like being back home.” His hand slips back under the covers and seeks out Thorin’s.

Thorin’s heart warms. “We saw so many different stars,” he says, recalling all the night skies they watched. The sea of stars they crossed. “Different skies.”

“True,” Bilbo agrees, and squeezes Thorin’s hand a bit tighter. “And maybe those skies were more beautiful than this one. But seeing familiar constellations again…”

“We’re going home,” Thorin assures sleepily. Home, his mind thinks, is a good thing. And so he spends the night dreaming of Erebor; its warm halls, and the familiar faces there.

* * *

 

And then they reach the surprisingly picturesque town sitting on the edge of the desert. The locals cheerfully welcome the caravan, and everything is quite different from what both Thorin and Bilbo envisioned. After all those dark tales about Harad, they find themselves surrounded by locals who don’t blink at having a dwarf and a member of an unknown race sit before them.

Instead they find a number of very enthusiastic folks either trying to sell them clothes, food, a house, pipeweed, and transport arrangements. Gathering his courage, Bilbo opens his mouth and mentions Gondor.

Thorin holds his breath, waiting for the traders to turn away or curse the name of their northern neighbor. However, many of them smile and nod, and not a single one turns away. Arranging transport to Gondor in the end is far easier than anticipated after all, and before a fortnight is out, Bilbo and Thorin board a covered wagon that will travel toward the border with a small group of traders.

Though they could also make the trip alone, they are assured. Those roads are safe – no bandits, no robbers, no orcs either. Like in Khand, the political arrangements between the Haradrim leaders and Mordor – while uneasy and potentially disastrous in the future – have created peace and stability within the country. The villages Bilbo and Thorin pass on their way north all are welcoming and friendly, and when they camp out on the road, their little group disclaims any need for a watch.

Thorin does still stay up.

But all that he sees in the warm night are owls, a fox and some unfamiliar lizards. All else remains quiet but for the wind rustling in the trees.

And so they continue north.

* * *

 

“It’s funny,” Bilbo says, leaning comfortably against the fluffed pillows of their swaying wagon as they pass by lush green trees. “I’ve never been in this part of the world, but it does feel familiar.”

They crossed the border from Harad to Gondor a few days ago in a charming little border town. Its houses a mix of Gondorian stonework, remains of an older elven city, and the metal and fabric works typical of Harad. Colorful curtains in the windows of white-washed houses, southern ornaments hung onto olive trees.

Thorin felt like he could have stayed there. Despite being the only dwarf (and hobbit) within the vicinity, people had been welcoming. Then again, Thorin is under no illusion that the welcome may or may not also have been informed by the handsome sum Thorin had paid to have border formalities settled and to hire transport further afield.

“Probably because this part of the world has been shaped by the same hands that formed the ones we call home,” Thorin responds, though he hesitates to include Erebor in this. Looking at the gentle landscape surrounding him, the south reminds him of the Shire with its greenery and gurgling stream.

Erebor - even before the dragon came - had been harsher. Though perhaps just as beautiful.

“Maybe,” Bilbo agrees, and then yawns. “I think I’ll take a nap, if you don’t mind.”

Thorin reaches out to pat Bilbo’s hand. “Go ahead.”

Bilbo closes his eyes, and Thorin turns to look at the bright, blue sky. It’s almost spring, and they’ve been traveling for nearly two years now. They could reach Erebor with six fortnights perhaps, and Thorin longs to see it again.

But maybe they should take another road home.

* * *

 

A cool breeze blows down from the Mountains as Bilbo and Thorin cross the south gate of Minas Tirith. The sun has already started setting in the west, casting much of the city into dark shadows, grey on the white-washed stones, and it makes the city feel eerie.

“Gondor has a thing for stark colors, don’t they?” Bilbo asks as they quietly make their way upward. The steep streets have him out of breath already after they left the first level - the inn they plan on visiting sits on the fourth.

Thorin grunts in agreement. “Or maybe everybody’s colorblind,” he utters, disgruntled at the staring they attract.

Bilbo chuckles. “You know, the guard said it’s been something like two hundred years since they had dwarves in Minas Tirith.”

“Well, these stairs are a good argument not to visit,” Thorin returns between gasps. They both welcome the cooler breeze now.

Bilbo laughs breathlessly. “Tall people,” he manages, before he concentrates on breathing again. They cross another gateway, the ground evening for a moment. But the next fork in the road turns them uphill again.

Both groan.

When they finally reach the fourth ring of Minas Tirith, the western horizon has turned red, and the first stars have come up in the east. Sweat beads Thorin’s forehead, and makes Bilbo’s shirt stick, though the wind here has turned chilly. Bilbo turns to gaze out over the city walls - their inn sits on the ring’s outer row of buildings, and from the road before they can gaze across the flat fields, all the way to the north.

East, dark mountains sit silhouetted against the sky, and Bilbo shudders. They passed the road to Minas Morgul that morning, and he still recalls the dread crawling through his veins then. Like back in Mirkwood many years ago, something had felt wrong with the land itself. A faint echo of that wrongness echoes in the air, and he knows he will be glad not to linger here too long.

“Yes, yes,” he hears Thorin’s voice behind him and turns around. A tall, one-eyed man stands before Thorin, nearly towering over him - then he bursts out laughing and his entire being transforms. Bilbo watches in silent bemusement how Thorin, too, chuckles, and then hands over a small sack of coins.

“I’m afraid the inns here don’t have any dwarf or hobbit sized rooms,” he announces with a smile, “Though the good man here suggested we ask for a child discount - he thought we’d also require less food, so charging less would’ve been fair.”

Bilbo feels his own lips curl. “You explained him the error of his ways?”

“I did,” Thorin replies with a smirk, “But he’s expecting proof later.”

“Oh my,” Bilbo proclaims. Now that he thinks about it, he does feel fairly hungry. He’s gotten used to the meagre rations of the road - even with their more leisurely style of travel, there still isn’t time for seven meals on horseback - but his stomach declares it won’t mind switching back to more hobbity eating practices. “Let’s not keep him waiting then, shall we?”

It turns into a true challenge. By the time Bilbo and Thorin have refreshed themselves and come back down to dinner, the dining hall has filled. Word of two dwarves visiting the city has spread, as has word of the rather silly bet.

“I feel I should warn you all,” Bilbo announces cheerfully as he sits down before a richly laid out table. “I’m not a dwarf, I’m a hobbit.”

“Never heard of that!” somebody calls, and coins clink as more bets are being placed.

“Sounds fake,” somebody else agrees.

Bilbo’s smile gains teeth. “Like a dwarf, only we fight a bit less, and eat a lot of more.”

People laugh at that, and Bilbo begins to eat.

And eats.

And eats.

And eats.

The first among their audience begin to mutter in disbelief. “How is that possible?” a woman asks. “Where does it all go?” somebody else inquires.

The man who suggested the original bet turns to Thorin with a frown. “He’s not … hurting himself, is he? I mean eating so much…” His brows wrinkle with the expression of one who has known the pain that follows overeating. Thorin himself is no stranger to it - but as far as he knows Bilbo never experienced that discomfort.

“He’ll stop when he’s full,” he assures instead. “But he’s a hobbit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hobbit declare they are full.”

Bilbo clears the last piece of venison from his plate, politely dabs his lips with a napkin, and then turns a rosy smile toward everyone. “That was lovely! I really liked the spices you added to the mushroom sauce - it made for a lovely texture and just the lightest sweet tang.”

“Though,” Bilbo continues cheerfully, “I wonder, is there going to be dessert?”

* * *

 

They spend a fortnight in Minas Tirith at leisure, simply eating and sleeping and recovering from their journey. The stories they have and the sketches and maps they brought make them enormously popular in the town - to the point that the Steward takes notice.

Before long they are invited to the Citadel, and while unsure whether or not to reveal their identities, Thorin decides to see if the Steward can figure it out.

“It’s likely he will,” he tells Bilbo as they dress in fine clothes for the chilly night. Silks from Khand, cloaks from Ia, jewelry from Rhûn and Raga - they’re bound to attract attention this way, but Thorin also cannot deny that Bilbo looks gorgeous in that combination. “I never met him, but from what I heard he keeps a close track of the happenings in the world.”

“I suppose he must,” Bilbo replies and they step out into the sunset. “What with Mordor straight on their doorstep.”

Thorin nods. In truth, he is glad Erebor has no such terrifying neighbors. Certainly, relations with the Greenwood are not always smooth and that abandoned fortress in the south tends to attract shady folks - but that all is a far cry different from Mordor.

They arrive at the Citadel just when the sun disappears behind the western horizon; out of breath from the climb up to the city’s top level. Steward Denethor and his wife Findulas, and their children warmly welcome them – several dignitaries await their company for dinner, and they hope Bilbo and Thorin don’t mind, but before their small group can proceed to the Citadel’s feasting hall, their oldest son steps forward.

“You’re a dwarf!” the older one - broad-shouldered and cheerful - declares with an excited grin. “I’ve never met a dwarf! Mother, have you ever met a dwarf? Do you come from the Iron Hills? The Blue Mountains? Erebor? How did you come here? Are there more -”

“Boromir, let the good man answer first,” his mother interrupts laughing.

“Of course!” Boromir agrees, not the least chastised, and barrels on: “Where did you come from? What brings you here? How did you come to Minas Tirith? How do you like the city? Have you visited the armory yet?”

“We are actually merely passing through,” Thorin replies with a chuckle when Boromir has to stop to breathe. “We started out in Khand, though we’re not from there.”

“Khand!” the young boy echoes with sparkling eyes, “Did you hear that, Faramir? They’re been to Khand!”

Boromir’s younger brother looks no less fascinated, though he’s not quite dared to step past his mother’s skirts yet.

“Do you come from the Ro … the Ororor … those red mountains to the east then?” Boromir asks, and Thorin has to admit it’s a very good conjecture, and whoever is responsible for the boys’ education knows their job.

“No, though we crossed those, too,” Thorin replies gently. “We come from Erebor which we left nearly two years ago.” And look forward to seeing it again.

“Erebor!” Boromir exclaims excitedly.

His brother’s brow, however, furrows. “Are you King Thorin?” he asks abruptly, eyes wide with that sudden realization.

Thorin blinks. Denethor and Findulas freeze.

“Huh, why’d you think that?” Boromir asks, undaunted.

“Well, he’s a dwarf, but his companion is not. Also, King Thorin abdicated, and Mithrandir said he and his spouse had gone on a long journey,” Faramir explains with growing confidence. Though after a short pause he adds: “Of course, I’m probably wrong.”

“Gandalf passed by?” Bilbo asks softly, and the familiar name makes Thorin’s chest tighten. He’d be even glad to see that old wizard again, now.

“He does come by frequently,” Findulas replies gently. “More often so of late, though I’m afraid you have missed him this time.”

Thorin reaches a decision and turns back to the boys. With a bow of his head he decides to be honest. “I am indeed that Thorin, though my nephew Fili has succeeded the throne. And this is Bilbo Baggins, my dear spouse and friend through many adventures.”

“Fantastic!” Boromir exclaims at an ear-splitting volume.

“I’m afraid I dismissed my son’s rather correct guesses wrongly then,” Denethor states. “Had we known we would have welcomed you as appropriate, naturally, and taken care -”

Thorin interrupts him with a shake of his head. “Please, do not bother. We do not consider this an official visit - for all purposes, treat us a travelers passing through.”

Denethor hesitates, but then inclines his head in agreement. “Very well. We’ll keep this a secret.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, and the air around all of them eases.

“Alright,” Boromir interrupts, “If you’re done, I have questions!”

He does indeed have many, many questions. His younger brother, once having overcome his initial shyness, has no fewer. Bilbo and Thorin answer them the best they can, and once dinner has concluded they bring out the maps and sketches.

* * *

 

The next day their breakfast is interrupted by the arrival of two cheerful boys with an escort of guards.

“Good morning,” Boromir declares, beaming. “How about Faramir and I show you the city? We know all the good spots! The armory! The training yard! And there is that big -”

“Only if you want to, of course,” Faramir hurriedly adds, and the head of their escort stifles a laugh. Everybody else in the inn watches in fascination, Thorin notices, though the inn keeper smiles, too.

Good to know the boys are well-known and popular, then. The memories have nearly vanished, but he still recalls what it was like growing up the prince of a vast kingdom with growing unrest.

“We also have some more questions,” Boromir adds earnestly.

“Don’t you know everything by now, young lord?” a man sitting at a different table calls over.

“Oh, hello, Master Hallgond,” Faramir greets politely, while Boromir shakes his head. “No, but we will!” he declares ambitiously. “And then we’ll make Gondor even better!”

“Then why aren’t you in the library, studying?” Hallgond easily returns.

Boromir grimaces and Thorin has to bite his lip. Frerin - so many, many years ago - used to wear the same expression whenever their tutors shot down their daydreams with suggestions to actually study.

“Talking to travelers helps keeping knowledge current and gathering new information,” Faramir says wisely. “Mithrandir says so.”

Of course, Gandalf would say so, Bilbo thinks and feels his lips tugging up. “You know what,” he says, “How about you and your brother show us the library? It’s quite famous after all.”

* * *

 

It becomes a busy day fast. First they head to the library, which is indeed quite impressive. The librarians cheerfully greet the two boys as well as their strange companions, and then Faramir happily tells them all about the rare manuscripts and ancient books stored here. Bilbo finds his curiosity tickled, but before long his stomach growls.

Food is had at an inn at one of the lower city rings, and after that they visit the barracks. Boromir proudly tells them about all his training progress and then asks them to spar with him. Eventually, Thorin does cave - though Boromir is initially disappointed neither Orcrist of the fancy scimitar will be used.

Bilbo settles in the shade together with Faramir and watches.

Thorin may not have fought a serious battle in ages, but his movements remain sharp and precise. And also very appropriate in regards to his opponent.

“Huh,” Faramir comments after a while, “Our instructor would’ve knocked the sword right out of Boromir’s hand long ago.”

“You noticed?” Bilbo asks, and the young boy next to him nods. “Well, Thorin believes it helps more to let a person keep fighting than to knock them down. That’s good in a duel, but not good for training.”

“I see,” Faramir mutters, not looking away from Thorin.

Bilbo smiles fondly. “I’m not certain if he’s got the right of it, though - he’s not an instructor after all. But his nephews learnt from him and as far as I can tell they fight decently.”

Thorin also tried to teach Bilbo, but he remains uncertain as to whether that can be considered a success. At the one hand, he’s far from proficient with his blade. On the other, he’s a hobbit, and he can dodge and parry and slash and stab.

It’s good enough.

On the sparring field the two combatants have gained an audience. Boromir is breathing heavily - even Bilbo can tell he’s growing exhausted and making mistakes. Thorin holds his wooden practice blade steady, and barely one of his greying hairs is out of place.

Eventually, though, Boromir runs out of energy.

“You fight well,” Thorin commends him after, “Continue your training and you’ll be a very fine warrior before long.”

Boromir breaks into a wide smile at that. “It’s what I want to be!” he declares, wiping the sweat from his face with one dusty hand. “I’ll keep the country safe! People won’t have to worry about Mordor ever again!”

Thorin’s chest pulls - was he ever so enthusiastic and optimistic as a child? Before the dragon came, before his grandfather’s mind begun drifting, he remembers having spoken similarly bold words.

And he hopes that these boys will have a better face ahead of them.

“I’m sure you will,” Thorin confirms, and resolves to turn more attention to the south in the future. Erebor may be far from Gondor, from Mordor. But if that evil there indeed revives, it concerns them too.

* * *

 

Time passes, and slowly the days begin to grow warmer. Bilbo often gazes north - Erebor is no longer that distant, and while the road past the dead marshes is not an easy one, it should be manageable after all they’ve already mastered.

Slowly they begin to pack their things. Say their goodbyes, with promises to write in the future - if Erebor’s ravens can make it to the Shire, they can reach Minas Tirith as well.

“Next time we’ll come to visit you!” Boromir promises with determination.

Thorin smiles, and decides not to think about what is likely to lie ahead of those boys. After all, he never expected to the see the wonders of the world either - not as a prince, not as an exile, not as King under the Mountain. And today, here he stands.

That evening, he also reaches one more decision. One he thinks Bilbo must have thought about too - seeing how sometimes his gaze wanders from the north to the west. Today, too, he stands on the balcony of their room and looks after the setting sun.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says as he steps up to the banister next to his beloved, “There has been something I have been thinking about.”

Bilbo turns to glance at him, curiosity and worry swimming in his eyes. “What is it?”

“How about we take the long way home?” Thorin asks with a smile, “I think I’d like to visit the Shire again.”

And Bilbo’s responding smile outshines the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back in familiar lands, and one last chapter left to go.


	8. The Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last part of any journey: the road home. But in this case, Bilbo and Thorin turn northwest after leaving Rohan and travel first to the Shire, and then toward Erebor.

They leave Rohan behind and turn north. Spring follows them, meter by meter that their ponies trot along well-kept roads. Traders hail them, but nobody recognizes Thorin or Bilbo.

To their right the snow-covered slopes of the Misty Mountains rise higher and higher, and after an unfortunate encounter with a group of overly enthusiastic robbers (unfortunate for the robbers. Thorin has a jewel-studded Khand blade he was itching to test, Bilbo has Sting, and their escort is fairly eager to prove their worth as well) - they stick to the path a little closer to the mountains.

The weather remains fair, though cool in the mountain’s shadows. During the day the sun warms them pleasantly and fresh green accompanies them. High up the trees stand yet bare - spring is but beginning. Nights grow cold, and on those when they don’t find an inn, Bilbo and Thorin curl up under thick, fur-lined blankets.

“We should have traveled this way to Erebor back then,” Bilbo mutters one evening with a blissful sigh. The straw mattress they have on their wagon is not nearly as comfortable as the beds awaiting them in Erebor, but it is a huge improvement over sleeping on the ground.

Thorin, with an arm wrapped around Bilbo, chuckles softly into the hobbit’s hair. “One might think you found our journey to Erebor uncomfortable. But every bard through the country could tell you, it was heroic throughout and nobody ever uttered even one complaint.”

Bilbo snorts. “Well, yes. According to the bards I also think nobody ever got any sleep - what with constantly fighting off orcs and trolls and goblins.”

“We’re not going to get any sleep either, if we keep talking,” Thorin replies, and somebody from the group snorts. Bilbo grins at Thorin, but he has to admit to being tired – it’s been a long day of traveling and tomorrow will be another spent following the mountains north under an endless blue sky.

Overhead, the moon shines down from a starry, cloudless sky, and while the night air is cool, it carries a hint of spring.

* * *

 

As the lands grow ever more familiar, spring fully arrives.

The Shire is a riot of flowers. Overhead the sun shines from a cloudless, bright sky and the land around them blooms. Fresh green lines the roadside, the bushes are alive with birds and insects and the hobbits are busy in their fields.

Some nod at the two travelers on their ponies, some eye them with distrust. A very few recognize Bilbo.

“Master Baggins,” one rotund hobbit with greying hair exclaims, “You should go and –“ He stops abruptly, blinking, and several other hobbits turn in question. Their eyes widen, while

Bilbo responds with a wave, “It’s been a while, Mister Bolger. Good day!”

He does not stop his pony, and Thorin takes his cue to continue.

Bilbo has been tense for the last couple of days – and Thorin can only understand too well. If that was his home just out of reach, he would be impatient. Even now, imagining those last meters to the Lonely Mountain. To see his home again after so long…

Though at least this time no dragon will await him.

Bilbo trembles with energy and his pony picks up on this. The beast fastens to a trot and soon they turn onto a path that has Bilbo taking a deep gulp of air.

How long has it been since he last saw his home, Thorin wonders, and feels a kernel of guilt rise in his chest. If not for him and his quest Bilbo would still live here, in peace and quiet.

But Bilbo himself has enjoyed traveling.

“It’s just around this corner,” Bilbo tells Thorin, and there is a small, excited smile on his face. Thorin hums and nods – ahead of them the road becomes small, cutting between two hills.

Not large, but high enough to hide what lies beyond from view.

Their ponies’ hooves click on the moss-covered stones, flicking their tails leisurely to chase off flies. The scent of freshly baked pies fills the air, fragments of a hummed melody drift over - and Thorin finds his own heart squeeze as they turn the corner.

White puffs of smoke rise from Bag End’s chimney. Freshly washed laundry flutters in a breeze on the line below the huge acorn tree that casts shade over Bag End’s front yard. A hobbit crouched there rises, turns into their direction, and halts.

They’re too far away to make out the details.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo mutters, his voice choked, and Thorin belatedly realizes they have both stopped, their ponies abusing the chance to chew on the delicious green grass on the road side. Thorin nudges his forward - to see Bilbo wide-eyed and silently crying.

“Bilbo,” he begins, wordless and worried, and wondering if this was a good idea after all, or whether they should not have come. This is the home Bilbo left behind a long time ago - the home he gave up for Thorin and for Erebor.

“Bless my heart, Thorin,” Bilbo says, his voice still so oddly pressed and quiet. “I didn’t … Somehow…”

He shakes his head and breaks his tense stare to wipe the tears from his face. New ones follow immediately. “It appears I didn’t really expect to see this again.”

Thorin’s heart aches quietly, a phantom pain echoing in his chest.

“Shall we go and take a closer look?” he suggests quietly. 

* * *

 

They're half-way up to Bag End when the green door flies open and a grey-haired hobbit strides out, her clothes in disarray and her eyes wide. A grinning, younger hobbit follows.

“Bilbo Baggins?!” Primula Baggins shouts, “What on this green earth are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to write and - oh, hello, Mister Thorin!” She flushes and hastily smooths her blouse down.

Bilbo is bent over laughing, while Thorin sheepishly raises his hand in greeting. Frodo cheerfully waves back, and behind him at last Drogo Baggins shuffles outside. “Bilbo?” he echoes skeptically, “Bilbo’s not been here in a decade. Have you been at the mushrooms again, lad?”

Maybe they should have visited earlier, Thorin thinks, while Bilbo wipes mirthful tears from his eyes.

“No, look,” Frodo cheerfully corrects his father who fiddles with his glasses. Then his eyes abruptly widen and his jaw drops.

“Oh sweet Eru,” he mutters. “Bilbo!” His eyes light up, making him look years younger.

“Do come in, come in!” Primula exclaims while whirling down the short road in a flurry of skirts. Then she leaps forward and draws Bilbo into an embrace. “It's been a while cousin, but you two are always welcome!”

“Though I do wonder,” Drogo mutters, framed by Bag End’s round doorway. “Wasn't Mister Thorin King? What does bring you here? Nothing bad happened, did it?” His brow furrows and he inspects them from toe to head.

“Nothing of that sort, Mister Drogo,” Thorin politely replies while Bilbo is being smothered by Primula. “We … well, I suppose we started by going on a diplomatic mission to Rhûn. Oh, and I abdicated a few years ago.”

“My, my,” Drogo mutters. Frodo, behind them, frowns.

“Isn't Rhûn east of Erebor?” he asks, his gaze turned east as if he could see the countries there..

“Yes, yes, it is,” Bilbo confirms while he extricates himself from Primula’s death grip, ideally without stepping onto her flowerbed, which would constitute a guarantee for a swift end.

“Then how on earth did you end up in the Shire?” she bursts out, looking from Bilbo to Thorin and back.

Frodo laughs in the background, Drogo shakes his head in exasperation, and Bilbo and Thorin share a glance. Bilbo eventually just shrugs. “We took the scenic route,” he declares cheerfully.

And Thorin wishes he could keep this kind of carefree happiness on his husband’s face forever.

“Well, that's quite a detour,” Primula laughs, “but sit down, and I'm sure we can throw some snacks together while you tell us of your adventures.”

* * *

 

It takes slightly longer and once preparations are finished not only the table, but Bag End’s sitting room is also crowded. The entire neighborhood, a good number of relatives, and Bilbo’s old acquaintances have turned up - Bilbo, meanwhile, has inspected his old home.

The wooden furnishings survive, as do his kitchen and library. The main sitting room has been changed to lighter colors and flowery decorations. It’s lovely what they have done with it, Bilbo tells his cousins.

“You should send us a portrait or something, too,” Frodo comments as he follows them into Primula’s study. He gestures to the far wall, where the portraits of his parents Bilbo used to have in his entrance hall have been joined by many more. Primula, Drogo, and Frodo’s sit at the center, framed by many familiar faces. The portrait of Bilbo though, is dated - he thinks it was done when he reached his majority - he looks rather smug in a bright green waistcoat. There's even a portrait of Thorin next to his, though the painter apparently wasn't quite sure how to depict dwarves.

“I think the court painters can help you out,” Thorin cheerfully agrees.

“We can also send you copies of our travel portraits,” Bilbo adds.

* * *

 

“After Rhûn,” Bilbo narrates to a now spell-bound audience while outside the afternoon sun begins its downward journey, “we decided to journey east. At the southern shore of the sea of Rhûn lies a trading town from where they usually travel east in large caravans. Hundreds, almost thousands of people, really.”

“Did they have Oliphants?” Young Peregrin Took inquires.

“No, but they had camels,” Thorin answers and reaches for a nicely rendered sketch of Bilbo atop one. A loud “ohhh” echoes through the room. “They can travel great distances without needing water or food. And they're also impervious to the weather.”

“Well, they don't like rain very much, or so I was told,” Bilbo corrects, “But they fare well in the desert.”

“How did you fare in the desert, anyway?” Lobelia inquires. Age hasn’t mellowed her at all - her first comment upon seeing Bilbo had been an exclamation at his outrageous hair length.  

Bilbo laughs. “By dressing up in local costume,” he answers and mimics wrapping a scarf around his head. “Once you get used to it, it gets easy.”

Thorin fondly recalls their first attempts at getting those scarfs wrapped decently around their heads.

Lobelia does not appear convinced, and another relative looks on with consternation. “Isn’t the desert really uncomfortable?”

Thorin snorts at that.

“I suppose you could say so,” Bilbo replies, visibly amused. “After all, it’s hot during the day, cold at night, the cities move, and then there are also bandits around.”

And the entire congregation shudders simultaneous.

“Did you see any bandits?” young Peregrin demands to know. Then he turns sparkling eyes to Thorin. “I bet you defeated all of them! You’re a King!”

Thorin lights up with pride, though Bilbo answers. “Not quite. We were lucky in the desert, but we did run into bandits later. After the desert, we decided to try and reach the Orocarni Mountains on our own - but bandits are preying on those roads.”

He lays a hand on Thorin’s knee. “Luckily, Thorin noticed in time.”

Thorin wouldn’t really call it in time. But they’re both alive. And this part of the story will be important to the people here.

“Oh, what happened?” somebody asks, breathlessly. Thorin notices Primula looking at them closely - as if she was searching for any new scars.

Bilbo smiles. “Is the Thain here? I believe this part might be of interest.”

“I’m here,” Fortinbras Took calls over from the back of the group, and a few hobbits step aside to allow Bilbo to wave across the room. “Came the moment I heard you were back.” He raises a glass of wine.

They nod at each other. Then tension settles across the room like a thick blanket, and Bilbo returns to the story.

“Very well,” Bilbo folds his hands. “Now, we escaped the bandits, but we got injured and lost the road. So we were lost and in a bad situation when we encountered another, utterly unexpected group of people living in the forests of the Orocarni foothills.”

“Who did you meet?” another young hobbit demands to know. Thorin can see the older hobbits trying to guess - but the truth he feels is still incredible. Will it be for them like meeting survivors from Erebor felt to him?

“Hobbits,” Bilbo says, and the room gasps. Thorin allows himself a quiet smile and sees a similar expression on Bilbo’s face. Everybody else stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“How… what…?” Drogo mutters. Frodo leans forward excitedly. “Who are they? Do we know them?”

And Fortinbras skeptically tilts his head. “Are you sure?”

“Very much so,” Bilbo replies easily. “They are aware of the Shire - but only because my old uncle Hildifons ended up there.”

“Old Hildifons?” Lobelia exclaims. “He lives?” Several other hobbits mutter among themselves in the background.

“Didn’t Gandalf spirit him away?” Primula asks drily.

“It appears Gandalf spirited him away and told him to wait somewhere. But Hildifons didn’t stay put and ended up even further east - and settled with the hobbits there.” Bilbo leans back in his chair. “He was doing quite well, I think.”

“This is really extraordinary, Bilbo,” Fortinbras announces, and inclines his head. “What else do you know about those other hobbits? How did they end up on the other end of the world?” The group rustles with excitement.

“Apparently they came east after the wandering days,” Bilbo tells them. “They settled in a hidden valley - and until today very few do know that they live there. The forests around the Orocarni are thick, and their settlement is remote. Furthermore, it is mostly subterranean as well.”

Thorin watches how the palpable fascination at Bilbo’s words only continues to increase. “They are better fighters than we are - those lands are wilder than the Shire and home to very curious creatures. They also have a close trading arrangement with the local dwarf kingdom. To the point that the Blacklock dwarves are the only in the region that know where the hobbit settlement is.”

“Alright, but what do they eat?” somebody demands to know, and Thorin bites down on his lower lip. “What do they farm? Do they also have nice gardens? What about their clothes? Are their pies as good as ours?”

Hobbits, Thorin thinks as Bilbo starts on the intricacies of tomato plants, will be hobbits.

* * *

 

That first evening is followed by more visitations, tea parties, and dinner appointments. They visit the Thain; a number of Bilbo’s other remaining cousins, and the market. Primula’s little family cheerfully agrees to host them - and Thorin feels as if they traveled back in time.

Spring comes to the Shire in a whirlwind of blooming flowers, warm sunshine, and clear skies. Life here has not changed at all - some doors have a new coat of paint, but Thorin recognizes the now nearly ancient hobbit living next to the mill who watches him closely whenever he visits the market alone.

(Those visits always end up taking longer than anticipated. Usually a group of children will run up and demand to know more: about dwarves, about elves, about pirates. Thorin generously complies with stories that - by the time the adults ask for confirmation on them over dinner three days later - have turned unrecognizable).

Returning from one of his excursions, Thorin finds Bilbo outside, smoking. A cool breeze rustles through the lush green, and with a shiver Thorin turns to Bilbo.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, gazing at his beloved’s shirt and waistcoat. It’s almost eerie how much like the hobbit Thorin met in the Shire all those years ago Bilbo looks again. Only about a decade older.

Bilbo keeps staring into the distance.

“Not really,” he says.

Thorin huffs and drops down onto the bench next to Bilbo. He has to nudge his husband a little to sit down comfortably; though but for a tiny twitch of his lips Bilbo gives no reaction.

But Thorin is content to sit in silence and absorb the peaceful atmosphere. Birds sing in the nearby bushes, and the wind carries the clanging of pots and light chatter. Even after so many years, and so many different lands, the Shire remains unique in its tranquility.

He wonders if Bilbo regrets having left this peaceful life.

“It’s strange,” Bilbo says eventually. “Being back here.” He blows out a well-formed smoke ring - it hovers before them for a moment before the wind disperses it. “I wasn’t sure I’d come back.”

Thorin remains silent.

“On the one hand, I, well, I was getting letters, and I have always been a bit of a curious busybody. So I’d thought about going to see who’d gotten married, who’d had children,” Bilbo continues. “Then again, it’s a long trip, and I was thinking that there wasn’t anybody I was particularly close to. Writing letters is fine, but what do you do when you get here and find that you don’t have anything to talk about once the first day is over? The trip is a little too long to turn around right away.”

“I don’t think your cousins here will agree with you,” Thorin gently protests.

Bilbo chuckles. “No, and I’m glad I ended up back here after all. I doubt I’d have made the trip under other circumstances.”

“Didn’t you miss this?” Thorin asks. Ever since Bilbo decided to stay, Thorin had always regretted that in the end Bilbo had given up his own home. It always felt slightly unfair for Thorin to have reclaimed his home, while Bilbo ended up leaving his. “It’s your home after all.”

Bilbo breaks his trance and twists his head to look at Thorin with warmth in his eyes. “It is. Or well. It used to be, I suppose.” He shrugs with an endearing smile that manages to be both self-depreciating and carefree at the same time. “The Shire has changed. The people that made this place my home changed, too. Some passed, some moved on - and some are still great friends, but I changed, too.”

“What made Bag End my home then has changed. I’ll always have fond memories of the place, but I don’t think it could be my home again,” Bilbo continues quietly. “Erebor is my home now.”

Torn between grief for the loss of this home - no matter if Bilbo seems to have resolved it, it is no simple matter - and deep affection for Bilbo’s words, Thorin finds himself smiling and wrapping an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder. Who in turn allows his weight to sink against Thorin.   

Overhead the first stars flicker to life.

* * *

 

They leave the Shire behind not too long later. Spring will soon turn into summer; the best time to make the trip over the Misty Mountains. Bilbo stares at his old home for a long, long while after their ponies have been readied.

“Do you think I’ll see this again?” he asks, and the whimsical note to his voice makes Thorin’s heart ache. He understands, however, that Bilbo doesn’t want to stay - the Shire that was his home for so long has changed too much, Bilbo himself has become another. And yet it remains a place of fond memories - not only for Bilbo, but for Thorin as well.

So he smiles and presses a light kiss on top of Bilbo’s curls. “I’m sure we can make the trip again,” he says. “The roads are safe now, and considering the distance we already traveled - we can go back whenever you wish.”

Bilbo wipes at his eyes. “You’re right,” he agrees, and when he turns to Thorin his eyes are red-rimmed, but he smiles. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

They reach Rivendell quickly, and the snow-capped peaks towering overhead make Thorin itch. Erebor is not far now; soon they may even make out the Lonely Mountain’s peak if the weather remains fair. It’s so close -

And yet still far.

But he’s not the only one looking forward to returning to their home. Ever since they left the Shire, Bilbo’s smile has grown a bit wider, and they’re both getting up with the sun - to travel as far as they can during the day.

Much as Thorin would like to press on, he knows that it would be impolite, and they can probably use a rest.

“Lord Elrond is expecting you,” the elf escorting them into the valley says - more to Bilbo than to Thorin, but Thorin no longer minds.

“His hospitality is much appreciated,” Thorin replies, and has to stop himself from grinning when the elf looks to him in confusion. Let nobody say dwarves are the ones with difficulties to adapt.

“Yes, we were informed of your coming,” the elf continues.

“And we’re glad to know the message we sent arrived,” Bilbo replies smoothly. “You wouldn’t know whether the message we sent to Erebor arrived as well?”

The elf gives him a tiny smile. “I believe so. At least we got a second message from Erebor, telling us you will be passing through. Not on official business, we were given to understand; and as I was informed the message also stated to urge you to continue to Erebor without further delay.”

Thorin’s heart hitches. He looks to Bilbo, abruptly anxious. The hobbit, too, frowns.

“Did they give a reason for the urgency?” Bilbo inquires.

And the elf suddenly realizes how her words sounded. “Oh, I do not know. You ought to inquire with Lord Elrond, though I believe there is no reason for concern.”

Bilbo gives a small nod, but the worried wrinkle on his brow doesn’t disappear. And Thorin knows that the anxious knot in his stomach will only dissolve once he has read the missive himself.

He can only hope they haven’t missed anything important during their extended absence.

* * *

 

They don’t have to wait long to meet the Lord of Imladris. After they have had a chance to refresh themselves and change, an elf knocks and informs them that they are invited to join Elrond for dinner if they so desire.

“I have been informed you are returning to Erebor after a rather lengthy absence?” Elrond inquires over a cup of lovely red wine.

“Quite.” Bilbo laughs. “And I suppose the journey left its traces on us as well.”

Elrond lifts his glass in a silent toast. “Indeed, those are difficult to miss.” He gazes at the foreign clothes the two have donned once more for dinner. “Would you tell me of the lands you have seen?”

“Certainly,” Thorin agrees easily. “Though first, may I ask if you have news of Erebor.” Bilbo's own heart warms with longing for his home. He wants to see his friends there again, hear their stories, and share his own.

Elrond leans back. “To my knowledge all is well under the Mountain. But you are certainly missed. A number of trusted persons all over Eriador received a missive to that, I believe.”

“Oh, what did it say?” Bilbo demands to know.

“That if you happened to pass by our utmost was to be done to keep you from wandering further afield.” Elrond smiles at them, and Bilbo feels reminded of being scolded as a child for straying too far.

“We …” turned around a while ago, Bilbo wants to say. Which is true, but they certainly took their sweet time. They even visited the Shire.

“... are heading to Erebor directly now.” Thorin finishes instead.

“Truly?” Elrond lifts one eyebrow. “No detours to the Grey Mountains planned?”

Thorin appears taken aback, but Bilbo is familiar with Elrond’s dry sense of humor. “Not unless Thranduil has shut down the Elven path in the meantime.”

Elrond inclines his head. “I believe he has not.” He takes a sip of his wine and the air around the table grows even more relaxed.

Before long, the plates have emptied and everybody has wine warming their blood. Night has fallen outside, but Rivendell bathed in moonlight is ethereal and the summer nights are warm.

“Let us start the story not at the beginning, but far away, at the shores to the South of the Great Eastern Desert,” Bilbo sets out. “We sailed from Ia to Khand, and most of the coast is covered by thick forest. A type that is very different from our forests - warmer and more humid, and I have never seen birds and flowers more colorful.”

He idly turns over one of the hair ornaments they picked up on Raga. “I saw no town, but we anchored at a small village there. And they told us there are more settlements, hidden in the forests.”

“What struck me was how familiar some of the architecture appeared,” Bilbo allows himself a small smile. “That mystery was soon resolved - there are elves living on those distant beaches.”

Elrond’s eyes widen. “What elves?” he asks. “When did they come there?”

“A long time ago,” Thorin answers. “During the second age. We spoke with an elf named Miniel and I gained the impression he knew Oropher. I do not know if he knew you.”

Elrond sets his cup down. He visibly needs a moment to compose himself, but here is a light in his eyes that Thorin can relate to. Finding survivors of Erebor in the Orocarni after so long a time left him speechless.

“A Silvan elf, then,” Elrond says with a small but growing smile. “We believe few survive - so it gladdens me to learn there is one alive and well in distant lands.”

“He told us a number of elves who survived decided to head toward the south,” Thorin continues. “Some decided to sail east to the islands beyond, others settled there. It is a blessed land - warm and with an abundance of food from the trees and the sea.”

Elrond folds his hands. “I'm glad to know they live well. Thank you for bringing those news all this way.” He glances down; Thorin and Bilbo exchange a smile.

“But now tell me of your journey and what else you saw.” 

* * *

 

They leave Rivendell behind quickly. The call of home beckons, and fair weather paves the way. They pass the Misty Mountains with a company of elves in summer, and are welcomed by Beorn on the other side. While the skinchanger seems unimpressed by the elvish company and the strange souvenirs, he adores the stories.

“Have you seen other skinchangers there?” he asks when the hour has grown late enough the eastern sky begins to lighten again.

Pursing his lips, Bilbo shakes his head. “But there are vast forests at the foot of the Orocarni,” Thorin adds thoughtfully. “And lands beyond the sea - I would be surprised if there should not be other skinchangers there.”

Beorn hums. “Maybe.”

“We even found hobbits living there,” Bilbo adds, and Beorn’s face brightens.

His next “maybe” sounds a little more hopeful and he turns to look at the rising sun outside.

Bilbo and Thorin smile at each other. 

* * *

 

And one day in late autumn they emerge from the Greenwood’s colored dress to find themselves on the western border of the Long Lake. Overhead a warm afternoon sun looks down on them, making the waters glitter and beyond Erebor’s snow-covered slopes shine.

Thorin’s heart skips a beat. Next to him, Bilbo stops. A soft smile crawls on his face, and warmth blossoms in his chest.

“Erebor,” Thorin says, reverently, just as Bilbo whispers “home.”

They look at each other. Smile.

“It’s incredible,” Bilbo says in that same bespelled voice, though he begins to move forward again. Down at the end of the road is a small inn now serving the guests looking to take the boat across the water - they can already hear it.

“To think we’re finally back,” Thorin adds with a shake of his head.

“It’s been two years now,” Bilbo comments. “They’ll probably be surprised to see us.”

“They will likely have heard of our coming already,” Thorin replies. “Not to mention we could just send a raven once we reach Laketown.”

Bilbo looks at him. “Are we stopping at Laketown?”

“We'd only reach Erebor in the evening.”

“And we’re too old to travel a few meters after nightfall?”

Thorin laughs. “Alright. We make it a day trip.” And his eyes shine with joy - he’s impatient to see the mountain again, see his kin again.

“I’ve missed them,” Bilbo says, “so let’s get there sooner rather than later.” 

* * *

  
The urgency bubbling in their veins must have infected their ponies. Both trot cheerfully and speedily forward, and the sun hasn’t quite set yet when Erebor’s grand gate comes into sight. Bilbo nearly bounces in his saddle with cheerful energy, and Thorin can’t stop himself from grinning.

It’s been so long. So, so long.

And here they are, on a late summer evening, and the world looks unchanged. The statues guard the gate, tall and watchful; as countless traders and craftsmen; dwarves and men, go back and forth on the road, basked in a warm glow from the setting sun. Warm lights flicker alive in the braziers.

“Oh, I think they saw us,” Bilbo comments abruptly, squinting. Thorin recalls the guards on the parapets watching the surroundings - and they certainly ought to have spied the two riders approaching them from the less frequently used road from Mirkwood.

“They probably did,” Thorin says, while Bilbo raises an arm and waves enthusiastically.

Then he turns around. “Just a moment,” and leans back to fish something from their pack pony.

“If we’re causing a commotion, let’s give folk something to look at?” Bilbo asks, proffering a headdress of pearls and oscillating feathers they picked up in Raga.

Thorin laughs, and dons it. Bilbo goes for the silk headscarf he wore on their trek during the Eastern Desert, and then picks up one of their capes from Ia to go with it. At least the colors match; if nothing else. Thorin leans over to fix the cape in place with one of the jewel-studded pins they bought in Khand, and then decides to switch Orcrist for the Khand scimitar. Like Bilbo, he wraps one of their robes from Ia around his shoulders, but fixes it into place with a brooch he received from the Blacklock clan - he wonders who will be the first to recognize it.

“We look outrageous,” Bilbo cheerfully pronounces.

Outrageous, very much changed, and yet fully content and cheerful. It’s a good look on Bilbo, Thorin thinks, and hopes he looks that good, too.

“Now let’s go and turn some heads,” Thorin says.

They urge their ponies to pick up speed, and Thorin can spy a commotion happening before Erebor’s entrance. So they were seen and recognized, and his entire body begins to prickle. Who will be there first? Dis? Fili? Dwalin? Will they have changed? What will they have to say?

He’s not felt this elated in ages.

A small group dispatches itself from the bulk of bodies before Erebor. Riders, Thorin thinks, though Bilbo can already make them out.

“Dwalin!” the hobbit exclaims, waving wildly. His poor pony starts to gallop. Thorin follows suit; his cheeks hurting from smiling so much.

“Hello Dwalin!”

“You,” Dwalin says, incredulity written all over his face, warring with a broad grin. “You!”

Thorin grins and grins and grins, and Bilbo laughs wildly. At least their ponies have the good sense to slow down.

“You,” Dwalin still doesn’t manage more when his pony trots up to Bilbo’s and he draws the hobbit against him and gently knocks their foreheads together. Bilbo keeps laughing, equally unable to speak, but patting Dwalin’s shoulder with vigor.

Thorin is glad to see Dwalin. He does intend to remain aside and wait until Dwalin has hugged Bilbo dead enough to face his own fate, but a hand sneaks out and tugs on the reigns he is loosely holding.

His pony makes a small sound of protest, but has no issue of squeezing right next to the other, while Thorin is pulled almost out of the saddle by one dwarf and one hobbit arm.

“You crazy, insane, inane, utterly mud-headed, troll-brained, goat-legged, stubborn idiots,” Dwalin bursts out, his voice hitching mid-curse. Bilbo chuckles, sounding close to tears himself and Thorin can feel his own eyes burning.

“Welcome home,” Dwalin says and his voice cracks. “Welcome home.”

And when Thorin turns to wave at the remaining family (featuring Kili galloping toward him like a madman, Fili and Dis waving from a dignified distance, Balin shaking his head in exasperation, and everybody alternating between cheering and crying) tears gleam on Bilbo’s cheeks, and Thorin allows them to spill from his own eyes, too. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and he doesn’t know if he has ever felt happier in his life.

“We’re back,” he murmurs, and gently nudges his pony to cross the remaining meters. “We’re home.”

* * *

 

Their reception back to Erebor, Bilbo notes later, was probably planned to be a pompous and elegant ceremony. That never happened - instead they got cheerful, teary chaos. Kili tackled them the moment everyone got off their ponies, then Gloin followed suit with enthusiastic head-butts. Fili would have joined the pile, had not his mother grabbed his royal cloak and held him back.

But the commotion caused by prince Kili has already drawn attention. Slowly life at the gate draws to a halt, whispers and incredulous shouts arise. The early night grows alive with happy exclamations under the first stars.

“They're back,” hundreds of incredulous voices whispers. “They're back. They've come back.”

“Of course we are,” Bilbo, with his nose squashed against Gloin’s chest and his arms pinned by Kili and Thorin respectively, wants to reply. “Of course they came back. This is home. This is where we will always come back to.”

Thorin makes an odd, choked noise somewhere in Bilbo’s left, and Kili breaks out laughing. Gloin protests a shortage of air; and outside somebody, incredulously, inquires “so they are really not dead?”

“Of course not,” another familiar voice replies and Bilbo disentangles himself enough to catch a glimpse of Dori, watching the proceedings from a safe distance. He catches Bilbo’s eye and gives him a small wink. “We kept telling people, but after a while the rumor mill got a life of its own.”

“Yes,” Nori agrees having snuck up from nowhere. “There were all sorts of stories. You settled in the Shire. Eloped to Khand. Got eaten by a sea snake.”

Bilbo snorts. He thinks there might be a good chance he knows the authors of these rumors rather well - after all Ori and Nori are proud of being in control of Erebor’s gossip.

“As you can see, we haven’t been eaten or anything,” Thorin protests drily. “However, if you continue to cut off my air supply, I’m afraid ‘choked to death by overly enthusiastic family members’ will have to be put on that list.”

Gloin bursts out laughing, but disentangles himself. Bilbo gets to draw in one deep breath, and then Bofur sweeps him off his tottering feet again. “Bilbo!” he exclaims happily. “I missed my favorite hobbit! What took you so long?”

“Didn’t you hear, they took the scenic route,” Nori mutters in the background. Bilbo flings his own arms around Bofur, not minding the fine stone dust that rubs off onto his own clothes. He missed this.

He missed them all.

Behind him Dis draws her brother into a long overdue embrace. Somebody sobs; the noise swallows by laughter, and then with a noise or protest Fili takes off his crown and steps forward to hug them too.

“So tell us about what you saw,” Balin asks them, holding the crown.

Bilbo pats Bofur’s should and slides over to gently knock his head against Balin’s. “Many, many, fantastic things,” he replies, allowing uncensored enthusiasm to seep into his voice. “Remote islands, the cities of Khand, the Orocarni…” Even now, standing here as a warm summer wind blows across the nightly plain, he can scarcely believe how far they traveled.

“You have to tell us everything!” Ori shouts over as he just makes his way out of the gate, followed by Bifur. Bilbo laughs and shares a gentle head-butt with both of them. Everyone is here now, and he doesn’t think he has ever felt as happy.

“Actually, there is something you should know,” Thorin rumbles, and disentangles himself. He drifts over next to Bilbo, a warm smile on his face. All faces turn to him, expectation on them. And Bilbo suddenly realizes what Thorin is about to say.

“We had the opportunity to visit the Blacklock kingdom in the Orocarni,” Thorin begins, twisting a new bead in his hair. “And to our surprise it turns out quite a number of our kin now lives there.”

“What?” Dis exclaims loudly. Kili’s jaw drops, Gloin claps his hands together, Oin stares at all of them in disbelief, and even Balin’s eyes widen.

“Is that true?” Balin asks, a tremor in his voice. Bilbo knows the incredible joy as well - back when his own uncle, the one he hadn’t seen in half a century, suddenly stood across from him, alive.

Thorin wipes at his eyes. “Yes. After the dragon came, a group ended up traveling east. They ended up in the Orocarni and were taken in by the Blacklocks there.”

“That is fantastic!” Fili exclaims, though Bilbo keeps his eyes on the older dwarves. Those that saw Erebor fall, that had to think friends dead without even a body to bury.

And now…

“I have a list of names,” Thorin continues. “It may not be complete, since a few apparently left the Orocarni to travel further. But quite a few more survived than we believed.”

“Mahal,” Dis whispers, breathlessly. Balin raises a hand to wipe away silent tears. Bifur signs to Oin in Iglishmek - and Bilbo can see his mouth open as the news stun him.

“Mahal,” Dis repeats again. “To think that after all this time …”

“I believe they were happily surprised to hear Erebor has been reclaimed,” Bilbo offers with a wide smile. “Some even discussed a visit.”

“Then they will be welcome,” Fili proclaims immediately. “Erebor will always offer a home to those seeking one.”

And Bilbo thinks about the Shire. How happy it made him to see it all again. And now, bathed in the glow of Erebor’s braziers, he acknowledges that Bag End is nostalgic; a home of the past. Erebor is his present home.

And he’s happy to be back.

* * *

 

Thorin and Bilbo take a short break to refresh. The hour is late, but with their return emotions runs high and nobody is tired enough to sleep. They will rejoin the others for wine and food and stories.

As he steps into their old quarters, a strange feeling assaults Thorin. The sitting room has not been changed - Bilbo left a book on the table before they left. Blankets lie neatly folded near the fireplace-facing couch. The air smells faintly of cedar wood.

“We’re home,” Bilbo whispers reverently behind him. “We're really home.”

Thorin feels the corners of his mouth lift. He can't quite believe it himself. After all those distant lands and faraway places, the road took them home after all.

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly as Bilbo slips past him to open the door to their bedroom. There, two years have not wrought major changes either. The water pitcher sits next to Thorin's bed, just as he always had it. A pile of books lies next to Bilbo’s side.

Standing here, Thorin thinks, those two years may not have passed at all. But in his mind it has been so long since he saw this, since he last slept in his own bed. All the different beds they slept on in the meantime -- tents in the Desert, cellars in Khand, their tiny ship cabin - at this moment they overlap. He saw so much, it feels stranger for Erebor to be unchanged - and yet he's glad for it. The last time he returned to Erebor, his home had become a coffin.

This time, his home is a home.

“Thorin?” Bilbo inquiries from where he has opened the closet and is pulling out old, familiar clothes. “Are you going to keep staring? I know, the bed looks inviting, but let's go and meet the others first.”

Thorin unfreezes himself with a shake of his head. Maybe he's getting old, he thinks with a wry smile.

Bilbo continues to chatter. “I guess our wardrobe must be horribly outdated. But we can take care of that tomorrow - after all, we don't have to travel further anymore.”

And how strange this will be, Thorin thinks. To wake up without having to plan for the road ahead.

He wonders if he will miss it.

But, he thinks as he reaches for a familiar tunic, they can always pack their bags again and set out. After all, they now have a home they can return to whenever they wish.

 

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it (alright, that's if for the text side. I'll edit in a collection of art links here in the near future). 
> 
> (Working on this was amazing, and I do hope this roadtrip across Middle Earth was an entertaining read! Also I adore feedback, so feel free to leave a line here or drop by my [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)!)


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